The Song of the Trees
by Tinn Tam
Summary: DH disregarded. Damaged by the war, Harry flees everything that used to be familiar to him and instead roams the night, haunted by unsolvable questions -- what truly killed Voldemort? And what lurks in the Forbidden Forest, where the trees seem alive?
1. Home and Memories

**Chapter One: Home and Memories**

Night had just fallen. The sky was of a deep shade of blue and stars were twinkling at the horizon; the warm breeze gently ruffled the leaves of the frail and thin trees, timidly rising from the ground covered in thick green grass. Vegetation was starting to again conquer the rocky mountains towering over the valley, without yet succeeding in hiding the deep marks still scarring the mountains: great brown burns and black amounts of ashes where old forests had once stood, and deep cracks streaking the grey rocks.

A cat was swiftly and silently making its way in the tall grass. It walked on, ignoring the tantalizing butterflies fluttering just in front of its muzzle, towards the foot of one of the tallest mountains. When the grass finally ended to be replaced by hard, grey stone, the cat abruptly turned to the right and walked straight into a pointed rock, standing isolated at a few feet from the side of the mountain.

Just before it reached the rock, the cat vanished from view.

The cat found itself in a tall, underground passageway; irritably shaking its head — the feeling of going through a rock being all but enjoyable — it headed for the exit, visible at about a half a mile away from where the animal stood.

The tunnel sneaked under the mountain and opened smoothly onto another valley, encased by the tall mountains rising all around it. The magical passageway was obviously the only way to get to the valley without flying. As soon as the cat came out of the tunnel, the sound of laughter and singing reached its ears. It stopped and considered the illuminated village of Hogsmeade that nestled in the valley. People were laughing and calling at each other, almost all of them heading for one of the largest houses.

The cat crept into the village, walking on the side of the Main Street to avoid being trampled by the cheerful crowd. The scent of wet paint and freshly cut wood filled the air; finally, after being destroyed to the last straw in the terrible war that had devastated the wizarding world two years ago, the village of Hogsmeade was reborn.

The cat followed the crowd of wizards and witches to the Three Broomsticks. The pub was the only building that hadn't been destroyed in the war, and it had stood firmly for the last two years, still receiving every evening the former inhabitants who had been forced to live in the nearby Muggle town. Now that they were all back, they were naturally gathering again in the Three Broomsticks to celebrate. Madam Rosmerta, the curvy barmaid, would be without doubt quite busy tonight.

The cat slipped into the noisy and crowded pub, and found a quiet, comfortable place under a table near the bar. There, it lay down on its belly, its head held high and its tail lazily moving up and down, and listened.

"To Hogsmeade!" roared a rounded man, very red in the face and already half-drunk. "To our lovely village finally reborn!"

"To Hogsmeade!" repeated a few people, laughing as the man staggered and spilled half of his Firewhisky over himself.

Madam Rosmerta rushed to the side of the plump man, seized his arm and tugged on it to help him stand up. "Archie, the festivities have only just begun and you've already had far too much Firewhisky," she said reproachfully.

"And to Hogwarts!" bellowed Archie, ignoring her and gripping a table to steady himself. "To the Hogwarts staff and students, without whom the village could never have been rebuilt!"

"Exactly!" shrieked a girl of around eighteen, raising her Butterbeer. "We've given up on our weekends to come and help here for the last two years, people!"

"Maybe you wouldn't have if you hadn't wanted to be able to visit the village again on your weekends," the owner of Honeydukes candy shop pointed out, smiling widely.

"Whatever!" boomed a voice from the entry. "It's so good ter be able ter come here again!"

"Evening, Hagrid!" called Madam Rosmerta from a corner of the room. "The usual?"

"Take yer time, Rosmerta," said the giant, smiling.

The celebrations went on. Madam Rosmerta had to serve everybody and she didn't stop trotting from the bar to every corner of the room, helped by the eighteen-year-old who had just graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"There you are," said the girl cheerfully, laying a glass full of fiery red liquid on the table under which the cat had settled. "How good is it to be able to drink without worrying about who will be killed tomorrow?" she added with a sigh.

"I'm only starting to breathe again," said a woman, gripping the glass of fiery red liquid. "You don't remember last time, you're too young. We had thought we were rid of You-Know-Who, and he rose again and started killing left right and centre."

"We had thirteen years of peace before that happened, Dolly," answered an old man in a wheezy voice. "And only three years of war. It could have been so much worse."

"And anyway, it's over now, isn't it?" insisted the teenage girl who had brought the drinks.

"Don't be so sure," whispered the woman called Dolly in a dark voice. "He may have not died."

"Codswallop," growled Hagrid, who had just joined the table where Dolly and the old man sat. "Harry Potter said he was dead. So he's dead. Or maybe yeh don' trust Harry Potter's judgment?"

Dolly, mortified, could only mumble "Not at all — would never dream of it —", and the conversation dwelled on less controversial topics.

However, as soon as Hagrid had risen and left — as he had "quite a lot ter do and not so much time ter spend with yeh all" —, Dolly leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "Hagrid can say anything he wants… I'm not as confident as he is. First, because it happened before; it can happen again. Second… because I'm not trusting a boy —" She suspiciously glanced around before going on, lowering her voice so that those sitting with her had to bend forward to hear. "— a boy who is said to have turned… completely _weird_."

"What are you talking about?" asked the teenage girl, somehow angrily. "Without Harry Potter —"

"He rid us of You-Know-Who," agreed Dolly, her eyes narrowed and her fingers playing nervously with her glass. "How did he do it? He never said. Why won't he say it? Because he used _dark magic_, obviously."

"He still vanquished You-Know-Who," said the old man serenely. "If he had to do it again, and if he had to use dark magic to do so, I would give him my blessing without second thoughts."

Dolly looked disgruntled.

"Why were you saying he was weird, anyway?" spat the Hogwarts girl, eyeing her with disgust. "If being brave, selfless and full of incredible charisma, is being weird, then I wish there would be more weirdoes on earth!"

The old man had an indulgent smile, but Dolly smirked unpleasantly.

"My cousin is working at St Mungo's," she said in a self-satisfied tone. "She said Potter suffers from… odd perturbations, since he defeated You-Know-Who. She heard he never sleeps. Never! He hasn't slept for a minute since You-Know-Who disappeared. And he feels nothing either. No pain, no emotion… nothing. He's barely _human_."

The people around the table exchanged dark looks.

"I can't say I'm surprised," muttered a woman, leaning back in her chair. "We always knew the boy was odd, didn't we? A Parselmouth… and a friend of werewolves and giants… and collapsing all over the place, and having dreams and hallucinations…"

"If he was dangerous, he would have tried to become You-Know-Who's ally, wouldn't he?" said the Hogwarts girl hotly.

"Not if he wanted to become the new Dark Lord himself," Dolly shot back at her, a triumphant smile splattered on her thick features.

"I've heard other things," said the other woman's husband. "He's able to see at night like a cat, and he can sense danger coming. Of course these are only rumours, but still…"

The old man closed his eyes in weariness as he drew a long puff of smoke from his crooked pipe. Now that they had found something juicy to gossip about, they wouldn't stop for the rest of the evening. He wondered if part of those rumours were true. Even if they were, even if the boy was now a little strange, he would be the last to blame him. That was a wonder all those horrible things Harry Potter had had to go through hadn't driven him crazy. The mere fact that he was still alive was a miracle; if he had died while saving the wizarding world, all those people whispering about him would be now wiping a tear at the thought of such a young and brave boy…

When they started maintaining Potter was a werewolf and a vampire who could read minds and kill you just by touching you, the old man decided he had heard enough of this. Getting laboriously to his feet, he grabbed his walking stick and headed for the door after biding Rosmerta goodbye. He didn't see the cat rising from its position under the table, making its way through the crowd and following him quietly.

He was just out of the pub when the eighteen-year-old caught up with him.

"Don't leave me alone with those people!" she said reproachfully, as she fell into step with him. "They're all raving about how we should lock up Harry Potter in Azkaban. Lock up a hero in that dreadful prison! I thought I was going to kill that fat one with her cousin in St Mungo's. The filthy old hag."

The old man smiled. He liked that girl.

"Dolly is just too fond of gossip to let escape such an opportunity. Now she's just glad she found a way to make herself important… She's that sort of people craving for recognition, you know… more to be pitied than anything else."

The girl let out an exclamation of disgust.

"More to be kicked in her fat bottom than anything else! I resisted the temptation to cast her a good silencing charm. Pity I'm so lousy in Charms."

The old man chuckled softly. The girl had a shy smile and, upon noticing he had trouble keeping up with her quick pace, slowed down. They were walking along the Main Street of Hogsmeade, their shadows stretched out at their feet and grotesquely distorted as they went past the glowing orange streetlamps.

"Which house were you in at Hogwarts?" the old man asked pleasantly.

"Gryffindor," she answered with something like fervour. "Harry Potter was in it, too. Two years above me, and the Quidditch star of the whole school! I used to fancy him. He must have thought me so stupid… I even tried to have him drink a love potion!"

The old man laughed again. "What is your name, young lady?" he asked.

"Romilda Vane."

"My name is Bernard Olibrius. I live in that house," he added, showing the brand new and tiny house with the tip of his walking stick. "If you have nothing to do one day, you may come to see me. You'll be always welcome with a nice cup of tea."

"Thank you sir," said Romilda Vane with a huge smile. "I'll be glad to come."

The cat, that had been quietly following them since the Three Broomsticks, sat on the cobblestones and watched as Olibrius slowly climbed the steps leading to the threshold of his house, and as Romilda Vane walked away.

The cat stayed unmoving where it had stopped, as if thinking about what it should do now. In the heavy silence, broken only by the distant singing and the murmur of the breeze, a voice suddenly spoke.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

The cat spun around to face whoever had spoken; there was a faint popping noise, and one second later the cat had disappeared. Where it had been stood now a tall, severe-looking witch wrapped in a travelling cloak. She couldn't see anybody behind her, yet she didn't need to see to know who had spoken. She knew that voice very well.

"You should learn, once and for all," she said briskly, "that it's quite rude to start a conversation when you're wearing an Invisibility Cloak, Potter."

For a second the air trembled in front of her, as if a hot gas was clouding it, then the outline of a man appeared out of nowhere as he took off a long silvery cloth of his body.

"Good evening, Professor," said the man as he moved into the orange glow of the streetlamp.

Harry Potter had changed. That fact would strike anybody who had known him as a Hogwarts student, as forcefully as a stone received fully in the face. However, few were able to say what exactly had changed in him. He had the same tall and thin stature, the same thin face surrounded by untidy black locks, the same big green eyes behind round glasses, and the same thin scar on his forehead. He had earned several other scars since the war, but his face had remained whole and untouched.

"Good evening, Potter," answered Professor McGonagall, not showing the shock she had experienced when she had seen him. She just couldn't get used to that strange boy Harry Potter had become since the end of the war, and she was irritated to feel like a stranger to him whereas, technically speaking, he looked exactly as he had always had.

"Do you want to stay at Hogwarts for the night?" she asked with a gesture towards the distant grounds of the school.

"I'll be very glad to," he said, unsmiling.

They walked silently along the road heading for the gates of Hogwarts. "Were you in the pub?" asked McGonagall after a few minutes.

Harry nodded. "Yes, I was. Just beside the table under which you had hidden."

"So you've heard everything they said, haven't you?" she said sharply, surveying him closely. He showed no sign of emotion.

"Oh yes," he answered nonchalantly. "I was rather curious to hear what people truly thought of me actually. That's why I went to the Three Broomsticks wearing my Invisibility Cloak. I've been doing that a lot lately, it's very instructive."

Professor McGonagall sighed. "You're going to make me think those stupid rumours are true if you go on like that, living alone, barely seeing your friends, wandering in the oddest places at night," she said severely. "Your behaviour makes of you the ideal topic for half-witted gossiping people."

Harry Potter abruptly stopped and turned to face her.

"What if the rumours are true?" he said bluntly.

Professor McGonagall stared at him in shock. The moon had risen and its white, ghostly light drained Harry's face of all colour. The pupils of his eyes were so extended from the lack of light, that they almost completely hid the green of his irises.

Professor McGonagall had realised long ago that his eyes were what had changed in him; they were what made him look like a person completely different from the boy who had attended Hogwarts. Those eyes used to be bright, expressive, and always betraying his emotions; now all she saw whenever she met his gaze was cold emptiness.

"What do you mean?" she barked irritably, tearing her eyes from his and walking on. "Last time I checked, you weren't a vampire reading my mind."

Harry gave a quiet, humourless laugh. "No, I'm not yet," he answered, catching up with her. There was a kind of detached amusement in his voice. _Two years ago, he would have roared with laughter, _thought Professor McGonagall sadly.

"But I was surprised to hear how accurate that hag whose cousin works in St Mungo's was," Harry went on. "I should have a word with St Mungo's Head Healer. He's not supposed to let slip information about his patients."

"You're ill," snapped Professor McGonagall. "It's not as if you were —"

"Barely human?" Harry finished coldly. "Quoting that Dolly, or whatever her name is? I appreciated that formulation. So dramatic."

It was Professor McGonagall's turn to stop dead. "Potter," she said threateningly, "sometimes I wish you were still at Hogwarts, so that I could give you a good long detention for uttering such nonsense. I just came back from a long trip, during which I spoke to countless people, all of them on the whole fabulously uninteresting. I'm glad to see you again and I'd rather you don't spoil it all by whining about what a wreck you are."

For a second, she thought she saw the old youthful gleam in Harry's eyes again. His voice was certainly much warmer when he answered.

"I'm really sorry Professor. It won't happen again. I'm very glad you're back as well."

They hardly talked as they made their way through the gates and towards the castle. The stigmas of the war were still visible here. One of the mountains had suffered so many spells as the Death Eaters forced entry into Hogwarts, that the top of it had finally exploded, sending huge pieces of rocks flying in the air. The mountain still stood, beheaded, and some of the rocks could still be seen, lying on the ground like defeated stone giants. The biggest of all was firmly planted in the middle of the lake, half of its impressive mass emerging from the dark water. The grass was only beginning to cover the ground, infertile and burnt from the countless spells that had bounced off it during the battles. The castle was still the same, no charm being able to destroy the thousands-year-old architecture. Yet the inside of the castle had been rebuilt almost completely, after being ravaged by a terrible fire.

Professor McGonagall and Harry Potter stood side by side in front of the oak doors, blackened and scorched.

"That school wouldn't exist anymore if it hadn't been for you," said McGonagall evenly.

"Just as it wouldn't exist if you weren't there yourself, Professor," answered Harry in the same indifferent voice.

Professor McGonagall didn't make any comment and led him through the doors and up the marble staircase.

"Do you wish to sleep in your old dormitory?" she asked as they reached the top of the stairs.

"No thanks," said Harry, "one of the guest rooms is good enough for me."

As he bid her goodnight in the doorway of his room, Professor McGonagall noticed something else in his gaze — something she hadn't noticed before. It was exhaustion.

She couldn't recall a time when Harry Potter had looked so drained out.

Harry sat on the window ledge, his gaze drifting on the grounds. He wasn't feeling as empty, as numb as usual. Hogwarts always had this effect on him: bringing out emotions from his past — how distant that past felt, when it had been a mere two years ago —, a feeling of peace and calmness he didn't experience anywhere else.

Harry distractedly played with the candle burning on his bedside table. The burning-hot wax flooded on his fingers, reddening the skin. He watched as the wax cooled and coated his fingers, and he smiled at his childish behaviour. The wax would have burned anybody else. But his fingers were only slightly red from the burning contact.

Harry returned his gaze to the grounds. He could see the Quidditch pitch in the distance, and he vaguely wondered how it would feel to fly here again. Flying hardly brought him any comfort, but then he hadn't flown at Hogwarts for the last two years.

A sudden longing for his old explorations of the castle and the grounds took him completely unawares. He almost laughed aloud; what a strange effect this place had on him… He felt nearly normal, all of sudden…

Harry abruptly rose, pinching the wick of the candle between his thumb and his index to extinguish it; he didn't need its light anyway, he could see in the dark almost as well as in broad daylight. He smiled again, thinking of how his strange new abilities would have been useful a few years ago, when he used to set off for long walks around the castle and the grounds, in the middle of the night.

He pushed his window open, and the chilling breeze caressed his face; he hardly felt its touch, though, and didn't pause to consider the dropping temperature. Hauling himself up on the window ledge, he stayed crouching on it for a moment, his hands gripping the stone lintel above his head. Then he swiftly turned around and hung from the window ledge, only holding on by his fingers gripping the cold, hard stone.

He didn't waste time searching blindly for projections; the stones of the wall had been polished by time, wind and rain, until they were as smooth as a mirror. He managed to grab the nearby stone gutter that ran down the tower, and let himself slide down it to the next window ledge. Each of his gestures was quick and precise, and although his palms should have been burned as they slid down the smooth stone of the gutter, nearly supporting his full weight, he didn't seem to notice.

He didn't have to go down very far before he met a roof; finally letting go of the gutter, he turned around to stare at the moon rising from behind the beheaded mountain. It was almost perfectly round. It would be full the following night.

Harry didn't have much trouble getting down to the ground. He jumped from one roof to another, until he reached the square tower of Ravenclaw house. Gargoyles were sprouting every few feet on the ridge of the tower, making a sort of ladder he used to go further toward the ground.

The last gargoyle was suspended about twenty feet above the ground. Harry jumped off it and landed catlike, on all four, on the earth ground. He straightened up and was surprised to feel his left leg giving way beneath him. Examining it closely, he found he had twisted his ankle. He hadn't felt any pain.

Taking out his wand, he pointed it at his ankle and muttered a quick spell. His ankle glowed in an electric-blue light for a few seconds; he cautiously leaned on his left leg, which seemed to be working again perfectly. Without thinking further about it, he set off at a quick pace.

The grounds were dark and peaceful. Harry went everywhere, visited every place he had ever been in, never lingering anywhere. He ended up entering the Forbidden Forest, which seemed to be recovering exceptionally fast from the treatments it had suffered during the war. Young trees had already replaced the trees burnt or cut, and the hundreds-year-old trees in the depths of the Forest had remained untouched.

Harry walked on, toward the wild core of the Forest — a place no living wizard, except him, had ever been in. After about an hour of walking in a total silence, he caught the sound of a twig creaking under a hoof. He paused, waiting for the creature that had made this noise to show itself. He didn't feel anxious. He didn't even feel curious.

The hooves stopped; the creature hiding in the shadows of the trees was at a mere few feet from Harry, and it seemed to be pondering its next move. Harry took a few steps forward so that the moonlight fell on his face.

The creature slowly moved into the patch of moonlight.

"Magorian," said Harry, recognizing the centaur.

"Harry Potter," he answered, slightly bowing in acknowledgement.

"Did I disturb your star-gazing?" Harry asked, holding out his hand for the centaur to shake.

"The stars are always there for those who desire to read their message," said Magorian, unsmiling. "Nothing can disturb their celestial dance. Firenze has been asking for you lately."

"I'd like to see him again."

"I'm afraid you won't be able to," Magorian said in the same deep, even voice. "Firenze is still suffering greatly from the wounds he received in the last war. We keep him in the Centaurs' Clearing, where no wizard will ever be allowed to stand."

"Will he survive?" asked Harry, frowning. "Those wounds are cursed, you should allow him to be cured by wizards."

Magorian surveyed him severely, his eyes boring into Harry's.

"No wizard," he said slowly, "is as skilled as a centaur in the art of curing and healing. This is an art the men learned from us, Harry Potter. And I'd add no wizard has been able to cure your own wounds in the past years."

"I am not wounded."

"The centaurs' art of medicine doesn't only apply to physical wounds," the centaur softly went on. "And I can see you have been injured more deeply than any human I have ever met before. Maybe, before long, you will call for the centaurs' help. And, given what you have done for our kind, maybe it won't be denied to you."

Harry turned his eyes away from the centaurs' keen ones. "I thought the centaurs kept to themselves," he murmured, staring at a path sneaking away in the shadows, without really seeing it. "I thought they didn't trust wizards. Dumbledore accomplished for your kind much more than I ever did. Would you have offered him such help?"

He returned his gaze to the centaur, eyeing him sharply, curious to see Magorian's reaction.

Magorian stayed silent for a few seconds.

"Dumbledore," he said slowly at last, "never needed the centaurs. The centaurs needed him, though no one in our herd would ever admit it. Dumbledore was a wizard. You were right to say centaurs didn't trust wizards; indeed they don't. Dumbledore was an exception. The only exception."

Magorian turned his back on Harry and slowly walked to the edge of the small moonlit clearing. Just as he seemed about to disappear into the shadows of the Forest, he turned around again to face Harry.

"But do you still consider yourself as a wizard, Harry Potter?" he asked softly. "The centaurs doubt you are so. The Forest thinks you are not. The trees are hardly ever mistaken."

Magorian's gaze trailed away from Harry, to the path he had been absent-mindedly watching a minute before. Harry stared at the path, too. He knew it was leading to the old heart of the Forbidden Forest.

Harry heard the centaur quietly walking away and disappearing among the trees. Automatically, he took a few steps toward the path. It was almost invisible, hidden here and there by a fallen branch or an invasive bush. But it would reappear, a thin white thread on the dark ground, winding between the thick trunks.

Harry found himself following the path before he had time to think about it. His feet carried him deeper and deeper in the Forest, until the trees closed completely over his head, forming a thick roof of leaves and branches the moonlight couldn't pierce. He remembered the last — and only — time he had walked along that path. He had been running, blinded by pain, bumping into trees and rocks, without any idea of where he was heading, just running forward, trying to escape the terrible pain tearing at his insides and burning in his veins.

Harry pushed aside a branch blocking his way, and stopped. The path ended here. Now he was in front of a barrier of immensely old and thick threes, so close to each other there was no way he could thread his way between them. He raised a hand and ran it across a trunk, not feeling the splinters of wood digging into his palm. He knew he had been further than this last time. He couldn't remember how he had got past the barrier.

He slid both hands into the narrow crack between two trunks and reflexively pushed on the solid wood, in an attempt to widen the opening. Just as he realised how foolish this action was, a sound like a light breeze filled the air and the trunks unexpectedly gave way to his pressure; he stepped back as the opening between the trunks widened, revealing an alleyway formed by two columns of hundred-year-old trees. The alleyway was bathed in an eerie green light, as if the summer sun was shining through the roof of leaves.

The sound of running water reached his ears. If he walked on, he would find the river. The river he had crossed last time, the river in which he had almost drowned.

Harry stood, motionless, at the entry of the deep core of the Forbidden Forest. Suddenly he felt unable to face the memories that would assault him if he went in there once more. Turning around, he walked away, ignoring the strangely appealing sound of the river and the inviting serene light bathing the alleyway. Behind him, he heard the trees closing once more.

Harry crossed the whole Forest; the morning was near, and the birds started singing in the trees. Their chirping and twitting soon rang from every bush and every branch, filling the air with shrill tunes. As Harry walked round the deep hollow in which the Acromantulas had settled, he heard a familiar voice grumbling, a few feet ahead. Smiling, he quickened his pace, and soon came out of the dark trees onto a small clearing. As he expected, Hagrid was there, busy ridding a Thestral of the ticks clinging to its skin.

"Hey, Hagrid," he said, coming to a halt beside the gamekeeper.

Hagrid started, frightening the Thestral that bounced forwards and dashed away among the trees.

"Merlin, Harry!" Hagrid exclaimed, drawing Harry in a rib-cracking hug. "So good ter see yeh again! Where've yeh been all this time?"

"Travelling," Harry answered evasively. "Sorry for scaring your Thestral away."

"Yeah, yeh wanna be more careful with that," said Hagrid gruffly. "Jumping on people on that hour of the mornin'… What a racket," he grunted, wincing as another bird added its voice to the already loud chorus.

"You must be glad the Forest is recovering so quickly, though," Harry pointed out with a smile.

"Yeah, I am fer sure," said Hagrid, beaming. "Those good ol' trees have already seen much worse than a bunch o' Death Eaters."

"Like what?"

"Like yer father and his friends, for a start," answered Hagrid, his eyes twinkling as he looked down at Harry. "It's a wonder the Forest survived ter seven years of Marauders roamin' around. An' the Weasley brothers weren't too bad, either."

"Hagrid," said Harry, suddenly remembering something the gamekeeper had once told him. "Have you really been in every part of this Forest?"

Hagrid straightened up, smiling down at him as he tucked his thumbs in his pockets. "Yeah, I guess I have," he answered proudly. "O' course I can't go in the spiders' pit anymore, now that Aragog's gone…" His smile faded and tears swelled up in his eyes. He pulled out his spotted handkerchief and noisily blew his nose.

"I guess I won't find that Thestral now, yeh scared him out of his wits," he went on loudly, his voice a little hoarse, as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Better go home. Wanna share a cuppa tea with me?"

"I'll be glad to."

As they headed for Hagrid's hut, Harry voiced aloud the doubt still lingering in the back of his mind.

"Have you really been everywhere?" he insisted, twisting his neck to look up at Hagrid's face.

Hagrid stopped dead in his tracks. "Why're you askin'?" he said suspiciously.

Harry looked at him in the eyes. "Have you ever been near a river in that Forest?"

Hagrid stared at him for a long moment. Then he abruptly turned away and walked on towards his hut, his enormous hand grabbing Harry by the arm and dragging him along.

"Let's not talk about that outdoors," Hagrid said in an answer to Harry's puzzled look. "Not good."

It wasn't before they were settled at Hagrid's table, great cups of tea steaming in front of them, that Hagrid resumed their conversation.

"There's no river in the Forbidden Forest," he said, drumming his fingers on the wooden table. "Not in the Forest I know, mind. The Forest… it doesn' like wizards, Harry. It has grown accustomed ter 'em, but it doesn' like 'em. The trees are hostile. But _they_'re only ordinary trees."

Hagrid heaved a sigh that blew through Harry's hair like a forceful wind. "Yeh'll find that, if yeh walk deep into the Forest, the trees like yeh less an' less," he went on, smoothing his shaggy beard in a distracted gesture. "The heart o' the Forest is the most bizarre place o' Hogwarts, an' that's saying somethin'. I've never been able ter go in there. I always stop at the edge. Yeh found the barrier o' old trees, didn' yeh? I found it too. I heard the river yeh were talking about, behind the trees. Couldn't go past 'em. Didn' want to, anyway. There are queer things beyon' that barrier. That's the oldest part of the Forest, that is. That's where all the dislike thing is comin' from. The trees that are there — they hate us. They're more alive an' more dangerous than the good ol' trees of the rest of the Forest. Don' try ter go that way, Harry."

"I went that way," said Harry quietly.

He took a long sip of his boiling hot tea, feeling Hagrid's astounded gaze on him.

"I went through the barrier," he went on, raising his head and locking eyes with the bearded giant. "Two years ago. Just after the Death Eaters' victory, when I was hunted down by the Lestranges and Nott…" He closed his eyes, the gleeful cackles of Bellatrix Lestrange's laughter still ringing in his ears. He had heard that laughter mixed with the sound of blood pounding in his head, as he had run in the Forest, his whole body on fire.

"The trees let yeh in?" Hagrid asked in a strangled voice.

Harry opened his eyes. "Yes. And they didn't have the time to close again before the three Death Eaters followed me inside."

"What happened ter them?"

Harry's hand curled on the table, gripping the tablecloth as a gruesome image flashed through his mind. "They never got out of the core of the Forest. They were killed."

Hagrid stayed motionless for a few minutes, looking at Harry in astonishment.

"Is that where yeh were las' night?" he finally asked.

Harry shook his head. "No. I couldn't go in. The door opened, but — but it would have reminded me of too many things I'm trying to forget."

Hagrid rose heavily from the table and seized Harry's empty cup to put it in a bucket full of water. "Yeh'll have to go back in there one day," he said gruffly, his back to Harry as he washed the cup. "That part o' the Forest hasn't stopped intriguing me from the beginnin'. Knowin' yeh, I would be very surprised if yeh weren' curious about what hides in there."

Harry rose, too, and said: "I should go and see Professor McGonagall now, Hagrid. Thanks for the tea."

"Anytime," said Hagrid, looking taken aback by this sudden departure. "By the way, what did yeh see behind the barrier of —"

"Bye, Hagrid," said Harry firmly. As he opened the door and stepped out, he called back over his shoulder, "I'm not curious about anything, anymore, Hagrid."

He then hurried towards the castle.

The sun had just properly risen, sending floods of warm light through the high windows of the Great Hall, when Harry Potter pushed the doors open. Professor McGonagall looked up from her plate and raised her eyebrows at him when she saw the scratches on his face and the dust covering his shoes and trousers.

"What happened to you, Potter?" she said in her usual sharp voice.

Harry looked mildly surprised at her question. "Nothing whatsoever," he answered before sitting next to her in front of the plate that had been set for him.

"You look like you've been spending the entire night outside," Professor McGonagall pointed out.

"I have," said Harry, picking up a toast in his plate and chewing it unenthusiastically. "I felt like walking."

"An old habit of yours," she said dryly. "You should have gotten some sleep instead, you looked tired last night."

He shrugged. "I couldn't sleep."

"You sound like a child. Why didn't you ask for a Sleeping Draught? Madam Pomfrey has some."

He looked at her straight in the eyes. "I can't sleep," he said again.

"I heard you the first time, no need to repeat —"

"You don't understand what I'm saying, Professor. I _can't sleep_."

Professor McGonagall's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She looked inquiringly at him, suddenly worried. But Harry seemed unaware of her questioning glance. He had closed his eyes and leant back in his chair, the summer sun bathing his pale face and making the white scar on his forehead gleam dully.

"Why can't you sleep?" Professor McGonagall asked bluntly.

Harry's eyes snapped open and without warning he stood up, leaving his toast unfinished on his plate.

"Thank you for letting me stay here, professor," he said. "I'm always happy to spend some time at Hogwarts. But now I must go, I promised I would be at the Ministry this morning, and I'm already late."

Professor McGonagall nodded, knowing it would be useless to try to question him any further. "You will always be welcome at Hogwarts, Potter," she said stiffly.

He extended his hand to say goodbye; Professor McGonagall shook it, somehow awkwardly, but something she felt against her palm made her frown and look down at Harry's hand.

"Potter — what in the name of Merlin have you been doing?" she uttered slowly, as she disbelievingly stared at his palm. Long splinters of wood had dug into the flesh; blood had filled the holes created by the bits of wood and was now beginning to spill out and run down his wrist in small, slow drops. Professor McGonagall's grip must have pushed the splinters deeper into the flesh, causing the bleeding. It looked awfully painful.

Harry's eyes widened as he saw the damage.

"Wow, not pretty," he idly commented. Drawing his wand, he pointed it at his hand. The splinters slowly came out of his palm, tearing his flesh a bit more in the process. The bleeding intensified.

"Problem solved," said Harry in the same unconcerned voice, picking the splinters and throwing them aside. "Sorry about that, Professor. Now I really must be going… Goodbye."

Professor McGonagall mechanically answered him, and she watched as he strode away from her, through the doors and out of the castle in the bright sunlight.

She looked down at her right hand, on which thin trails of Harry's blood could still be seen. She cleaned her hand with a wave of her wand, thinking about Harry's expressionless features. No wince of pain, no sign of emotion.

She remembered what she had heard last night in the Three Broomsticks, and she shuddered in spite of the warm temperature.

She should watch that boy closely.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks Lorien for beta-ing the first chapters of this story. **


	2. On the way to recovery

**Chapter Two: On the Way to Recovery**

The apartment was small and dark; the closed shutters let inside a thin ray of sunlight that fell on the dusty floor, scattered with various things – clothes, books, travelling bags, empty plates and bottles. The room smelled slightly stuffy, and had that abandoned look that usually goes with places seldom inhabited.

The sound of a key rattling in the lock suddenly echoed in the dark, messy room. A second later, the front door opened and Harry Potter stepped in. He didn't pause to consider the mess all around him, and he didn't think of opening the shutters. Letting his travelling cloak fall to the floor, he walked to the bedroom and hastily took off his Muggle clothes, muddy and torn in some places from his excursion in the Forest. Once he had changed into the black robes he was used to wearing whenever he had to go to the Ministry, he went to his desk, covered in broken quills and bits of paper; he chose a blank scroll of parchment and, after a while, discovered in a drawer half a quill whose point was still sharp.

He paused, his quill suspended above the parchment, thinking. After a few seconds, he determinedly dipped the point of his broken quill in a bottle of black ink and started to write.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I'm finally back from Siberia; the trip was pretty eventless, and I was more bored than anything else. I'm glad to be home, and I'm looking forward to seeing you and Ron again. How about having dinner somewhere on Diagon Alley? Only if Ron can escape duty, of course. Tell me which day you're available._

_I really must be going now; I'll see you soon, I guess._

_Love,_

_Harry_

Harry reread his letter, frowning slightly. He hadn't seen Hermione and Ron in a while. As a matter of fact, he hadn't really stayed in touch with any of his Hogwarts friends lately. They hadn't tried to impose their company on him in the past two years, for which he was grateful; they must have understood he needed to be alone. He didn't know why he was suddenly taking the initiative of seeing his two best friends again.

Maybe he was back in one of his strange moods, seeking company when he was alone, craving for calm when he was surrounded by other people… Or maybe, he was slowly recovering. Harry had surprised himself when he had been about to reveal so much about his new personality and the events of his seventh year at Hogwarts, first to Hagrid, second to Professor McGonagall. He had never before felt the need to talk about it; quite the contrary, he had hidden it, as he would have hidden a shameful disease.

Harry raised his head and stared at his reflection in the small and cracked mirror hanging above his desk.

Who would be friends with someone who was barely human?

"_Hermione and Ron would," _said in his head a small voice he hadn't heard in a long time.

Harry nervously bit his lip. Would they still be his friends if they knew…?

_There is only one way to know it. Tell them._

Harry remained immobile for a minute or so, gazing at the mirror.

"I'll deal with that in time," he finally said aloud. Turning away from the mirror, he went back to the small drawing room, swooped down to pick up his travelling cloak and flung it over his shoulders as he headed for the front door once more.

The letter lay forgotten on the desk.

Harry Apparated in the gigantic Atrium buzzing with the comings and goings of witches and wizards, all of whom looked extremely busy and conscious of their importance. He made his way to the security wizard's desk while vaguely nodding to acknowledge the eager waves and greetings a few people were sending him.

"Potter," he said in a toneless voice as he reached the desk. Eric the security wizard, who was deeply buried in the Daily Prophet, jumped and hastily straightened up in his chair.

"Of course! Harry, how are you?" he said cheerfully, holding out his hand.

"Same as usual," said Harry curtly, shaking Eric's hand very briefly. "I can't stay, I've been summoned to Robards' office. See you later."

He walked past Eric's desk without even waiting for his answer. Eric's forced familiarity was a bit annoying, especially when you knew he was keen on spreading as many rumours as possible about the weirdness of the Boy Who Lived. Harry had heard him an evening, when he was silently having a drink in a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron, unseen and unheard by any of the customers–all of whom apparently convinced that Harry Potter was fabulously rich and went to much smarter and more expensive places than the dusty pub of Diagon Alley.

Harry went through the golden gates into the smaller hall where Ministry workers and visitors were gathered, waiting for a lift. At the sight of him, the loud talking, laughing and arguing stopped abruptly, as if someone had turned off the volume control. Harry leaned against a wall, resolutely looking at the ceiling, and slowly the murmurs of conversations rose again all around him. People were careful in keeping their voices down, though, as if they were afraid of disturbing him – or of awakening a dangerous beast.

Harry heaved a sigh. Most of the wizards who had never known him personally were treating him like a bomb that could explode any minute. The others were eager to emphasize any connection, no matter how vague or ancient, that they thought they shared with him; but at the same time, they never tried to get closer to him. The relationship the wizarding world had with Harry Potter was based on a strange mixture of admiration and fear.

Half a dozen lifts came into view, clattering noisily. The crowd awaiting them rushed forward as soon as the golden grilles had slid back, and they filled the lifts so that not even a mouse could have crawled in them. Yet, when Harry reached the grilles, the people crammed in the lift miraculously found the ability to press themselves even more against the walls, leaving an empty space for him. Harry stepped in and the golden grilles slid shut in front of his face.

The lift began to rise; the grating and creaking noises accompanying the ascension were the only sounds in the crowded lift, as everybody seemed to hold their breath. Harry didn't turn around to look at them; he knew they would avoid his gaze or look terribly ill at ease if he did so. The fact that he was standing straight without being in physical contact with anybody, when the rest of them were nearly suffocated from the proximity, was eloquent enough.

As the lift ascended, people slowly filled out. Harry could hear them resume their talking as soon as they had turned round a corner. By the time the lift reached the second level, where the Aurors Headquarters were, it was almost empty. Harry walked out of the lift and in the busy corridor; people here were more accustomed to his presence and he got many waves and cheerful 'Morning, Potter'. He vaguely mumbled something in answer, without really paying attention to whoever had addressed to him. He soon reached the oak doors opening on the Aurors' Headquarters.

The place was almost as busy and noisy as the Atrium. Harry headed for the Head office at the opposite end of the room, Aurors and apprentices bumping into him as they passed him. Once or twice Harry felt – rather than saw – an Auror he had involuntarily knocked into turn back, ready to tell him off. As a rule, Aurors were keen on shouting at apprentices; any other apprentice who would have banged into a fully-fledged Auror should have expected a massive bawling out, terrible enough to make them wish they could disappear on the spot. But Harry never got to be yelled at.

As he opened the door at the furthest end of the hall, he found himself in a small room where Gawain Robards' young secretary was sitting at a small desk, her face bent very low upon the parchment she was frantically writing on. He coughed lightly and she jumped in surprise.

"Mr. Potter!" she squeaked, fumbling with an armful of documents sprawled on her desk. "You… erm…"

She took a piece of parchment and held it in front of her face, then timidly glanced at Harry from behind it.

"You were expected twenty minutes ago," she said in an apologetic voice.

"I know," said Harry. "I was delayed. Can I still see Mr. Robards?"

She looked at him with round eyes.

"Of course you can!" she protested in an indignant voice, as if it was positively shocking that Harry Potter could be denied a meeting with his boss for the mere reason that he was twenty minutes late. _Knowing Robards, he would be able to fire an apprentice for a two-minute lateness_. "I'll go in and – and tell him you're here, sir…"

She sent him a shy smile and went into Robards' office. Harry didn't have to wait ten seconds before Robards' booming voice rang through the small room.

"He's here? What the hell are you waiting for then? Send him in!"

The secretary literally shot from the office, white with fear and tears rapidly swelling in her eyes. "You should go in, sir," she said in a quavering voice. Harry nodded in her direction and walked through the door of the Head Auror's office.

Robards was sitting at a very large desk, which was covered in countless reports, maps, sweet wrappers and bits of cigars. A cloud of smoke was hanging at the ceiling, dimming the light and blurring Harry's vision. Squinting, he distinguished the red and sweaty face of his boss, who was scrutinizing him through narrowed piggy eyes while forcefully drawing on his stupendously long cigar.

"Potter!" barked Robards. "You're late, goddamn! Do you actually think I've all the time in the world to wait for bloody apprentices? What the hell are you thinking at? The world doesn't revolve around you!"

Harry had to suppress a smirk as he sat down on the hard, straight-backed chair facing the desk. It was common knowledge Robards had no liking for him, but he had to put up with the Minister for Magic's demands. Scrimgeour had expressly ordered him to treat Harry with consideration – if consideration was possible for that rude, red man, well known for his dreadful tantrums. Harry wondered how the secretary could survive when she had to be so close to the Head Auror all day.

"I'm sorry sir, I was delayed," Harry answered. "You wanted to see me."

"I was _obliged_ to see you," Robards corrected, dislike etched all across his red features. "I wouldn't see you _willingly_; do you think I've got time to spare for stupid apprentices?"

Harry merely raised an enquiring eyebrow. Robards glared at him for about a minute, puffing out clouds of thick and billowing smoke. Then he removed the cigar from his mouth and said slowly, "You are quite a pain in my ass, Potter, what with your rubbishy fame and your goddamn arrogance. But you're not too bad at task. I just got the report from your head of patrol – I'd say your performance is decent. You're not a total disgrace to the profession. Though I can't see why every single one of those idiotic journalists is raving about your brilliant abilities. Strictly speaking, there is nothing to be drooling about."

He fell silent again and surveyed Harry for a few seconds through the haze of cigar smoke. Harry didn't say anything.

"I have also heard," Robards went on, "that you have some very strange characteristics we're not accustomed to see in apprentices, for instance, your unusual resistance to pain or your permanent insomnia. I don't like that."

"Why not?" Harry asked, mildly surprised. "I would have thought these things were advantages for Aurors."

"I do not have to explain myself," Robards spat out. "Especially not to you! Who do you think you are?"

He watched Harry closely at this question, as if he expected him to claim his past exploits.

"An apprentice," Harry answered in a bored voice.

"Exactly," agreed Robards with a vicious grin. "Only a bloody apprentice. Therefore you'll do as I say. And I don't want weirdoes in any of my teams, Potter. I request that you get rid of those rubbishy abilities of yours."

"Easier said than done," Harry testily pointed out. Oh, how he _hated_ wasting his time…

Robards' eyes bulged in indignation, and he began to swell literally as his face turned a bright purple. Harry was so suddenly reminded of his Aunt Marge he had blown up in a moment of fury, back when he was thirteen, that he couldn't help smiling slightly.

This was quite the wrong thing to do. Robards seemed to think Harry was making fun of him; his mouth opened wide and his thundering voice made the floor tremble.

"WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO, POTTER? I'M GIVING YOU AN ORDER, NOW GET YOUR ASS OFF THIS CHAIR AND GO TO THE HOSPITAL AND DON'T COME BACK UNTIL YOU HAD YOURSELF FIXED, AND I DON'T GIVE A DAMN HOW YOU DO IT, JUST DO IT!"

Robards had to stop yelling for lack of air; breathing heavily, he furiously crushed the smoking end of his cigar on the ashtray. Harry decided it was time to go before Robards tried to treat _him_ in the same way; he got to his feet and bowed his head as a goodbye.

"I should be going, then, I guess," he said. "Goodbye sir."

As he turned his back on Robards, his boss found his considerable voice again and a flow of swear words accompanied him out of the office. The young secretary, who was cowering behind her desk, watched him with an expression close to awe as he crossed her room; Harry suddenly pitied the poor girl and he sent her an encouraging smile. He was surprised to see her blush to the roots of her hair.

The hall divided into cubicles was completely silent, except for the obscene shouts still erupting from Robards' office. Every Auror and apprentice had frozen, their head turned towards the Head Auror's office and their eyes widened in wariness or fear. Harry strode across the hall, feeling on his retreating back the furious glares some Aurors were shooting him. Admittedly, he had done nobody a favour by awakening Robards' foul temper.

Two apprentices near the door, who were busy trying to shrink in the wall so as not to be the next victim of the Head Auror's wrath, looked at him in admiration. They probably thought he was uncommonly brave to put up with Robards' spectacular bawling outs; truth was, if Harry had not been near-insensible to emotions, as well as to physical feelings, he would probably be trembling now from head to foot. All he was feeling now was a mild irritation at Robards' absurd order.

Once he had left the Aurors' Headquarters behind him, he turned right and followed the corridor until he reached a small, battered door on the left side. The door was covered in peeling painting and graffiti, such as 'Welcome in the anteroom of Hell' and 'Dump all hope at the entrance'. A sign on the door, dusty and lopsided, was bearing the words _Apprentices Quarters._

Harry pushed the door open and stepped in the noisy room. Thick ropes were hanging from the ceiling, twitching and swinging as boys and girls climbed up them. Several apprentices were practicing their aim, firing hex upon hex at targets painted on the wall. Others were duelling, occasionally sending misplaced curses that bounced off the walls and ceiling, filling the room with colourful sparks.

"Potter! Where've you been?"

Harry turned round to see Lancelot Colman jumping off the rope he was climbing on and walking in his direction. Though they were in the same year, Lance was a year older than Harry; he had repeated his first year of Auror training, something understandable given his well-known laziness and his liking for alcohol. Lance was the only friend Harry had made since he had left Hogwarts. He wasn't one to ask questions, and he always had a bottle of Firewhisky to thrust in Harry's hand when he found him particularly gloomy. Though Lance couldn't possibly become as close a friend as Hermione or Ron, Harry trusted him and enjoyed his company.

"Been busy," answered Harry when Lance reached him. "How come you're already at training? I thought you would have celebrated our return from Siberia."

"I have," said Lance nonchalantly. "I'm currently suffering from one hideous hangover. Too bad you weren't there last night, you would have enjoyed yourself. I was with Amy Redburn."

"Great," Harry muttered distractedly. "Where's Hampton?" he asked, referring to their head of patrol.

Lance raised an eyebrow at him. "I have no idea. Not that I want to, mind. That slimy rat should be there, normally… but if I survived this long this morning without being yelled at or threatened to be dragged to Robards' office, that probably means he wasn't there all morning," he said thoughtfully.

"I need to see him," said Harry. "Robards is sending me to St Mungo's, I need to check out before I go or I'll be in trouble. I don't want Robards to hear I don't scrupulously follow his rules, he isn't very happy with me already."

"As if he had ever been happy with you," Lance snorted. "Don't worry about Hampton, I'll tell him where you've gone. You'll come back here after, right?"

"Guess so. See you then," said Harry, gladly turning on his heels to leave the noisy and crowded room.

"See you… oh and Harry, if you can grab a bottle of anti-hangover potion while you're at St Mungo's –"

"Yeah, okay, I'll take it for you," Harry called back over his shoulder. He closed the door behind him and hurried along the corridor to the lift that would take him back to the Atrium.

The reception hall of St Mungo's looked quiet and almost empty after Harry's visit of the Ministry of Magic. A year ago the Hospital was still snowed under with victims of Voldemort's followers, suffering for horrible injuries or mental damaged, inflicted during the war itself or in the following months.

The fall of their master hadn't stopped the Death Eaters' sinister activities; quite the contrary, most of them were convinced Voldemort had just fled once more and would return to power one day, and those of his followers who had escaped capture right after Voldemort's death had done their best to retrieve him. For a year after the end of the war, the wizarding world had heard from time to time about murders and kidnappings.

Now that most of the Death Eaters were captured or killed, no one heard such grim news any more; and there was a confident, peaceful look about the Healers walking from patient to patient in the reception room, which contrasted with the atmosphere of anxiety and nervousness Harry had felt whenever he had had to go to the Hospital, in the few months following the war.

Harry hardly had the time to marvel at this change of ambience before a tall and skinny man, wearing the Healers' lime-green robes, suddenly appeared at his side.

"Mr. Potter," said the man with a somewhat hungry glint in his big pale-blue eyes. "I have been informed that you would be coming… I'm always so glad to see you, you are such an extraordinary case, you really should have come sooner. When was last time we met? Six months ago at least?"

Harry nodded, not bothering to answer. He had known Merlin Parletoo, the Head Healer of St Mungo's, for now two years and he knew very well Parletoo didn't need his interlocutor to speak. He had the stupendous ability to make a conversation entirely on his own, saying both the questions and the answers.

"– yes, yes six months, I think it was February the tenth, actually; I had a very remarkable case of a badly brewed Sleeping Draught the same day, the poor girl's face had turned orange with violet spots and her eyelids were glued shut, and she couldn't breathe without snoring loudly –"

"Did you think of any cure that could rid me of my… symptoms, sir?" asked Harry loudly over the Healer's endless blabbering.

Parletoo stopped dead in mid-sentence and reproachfully glared at Harry.

"_Don't_ talk about this here, Mr. Potter!" he hissed. "This is classified Ministry information – quite apart from the violation of the medical secrecy, which, come to think of it, you don't have to keep, after all you're the patient and not the Healer so technically speaking –"

Harry closed his eyes in despair as Parletoo rambled on. As he opened them again, he looked around for a nurse or a Healer that would be able to interrupt him; at last he caught the eye of a pretty intern, standing at a few feet and watching the pair of them uncertainly, her hands full of strangely-shaped bottles. The intern blushed scarlet when he looked at her, but managed a timid smile which Harry awkwardly returned. He slightly jerked his head towards the still talking Head Healer, looking at her enquiringly. Her eyes widened in understanding and she giggled, almost dropping her bottles. Harry patiently waited for her to regain her composure; at last her fit of giggling ended, leaving her breathless and quite red in the face. Then she began fanning herself with her hand, before securing her bottles in her arms and finally walking towards them.

"Professor Parletoo?" she said confidently when she reached them.

Parletoo sent her the same annoyed, slightly scornful look the Aurors were shooting at the apprentices at the Ministry.

"Yes, Miss? What is it?"

"I was sent to tell you your appointment with Miss Bulstrode has been confirmed," the girl answered sweetly, batting her long eyelashes at the old Healer. "She will come here at eleven."

Parletoo grunted, looking at the gigantic clock inserted in the wall above their head. "That doesn't leave me much time with Mr. Potter," he snapped to the intern. "And Mr. Potter is far more interesting a patient than Miss Bulstrode! Tell Wishnak to postpone her."

"I don't think that'll be possible, sir," murmured the girl in apparent shyness, though Harry could see the hint of an amused smile on the corner of her lips. "Miss Bulstrode has already been postponed twice and–"

"Fine, fine!" barked Parletoo. "We'll have to botch up this consultation, Mr. Potter. We have only forty-five minutes left."

"I'm sure we'll be able to review the subject in that amount of time, sir," said Harry. But predictably, Professor Parletoo didn't seem to hear him as he strode towards the double doors behind the welcomewitch's desk, complaining loudly about what a busy man he was.

Harry followed him in silence, feeling the intern's eyes on his back; he would have to thank her later.

They climbed the rickety staircase up to the fourth floor, where a sign bore the words SPELL DAMAGE. Parletoo pushed the double doors open and led him through several wards where Healers, nurses and interns were bustling about, none of them failing to respectfully salute Professor Parletoo. Harry felt many gazes following him as he walked alongside the old Healer; he just gritted his teeth and walked on, refusing to spare them a glance.

They finally arrived at Parletoo's large and luxury surgery. Parletoo sat in his armchair behind a desk made of dark wood; a single white sheet of paper lay before him on the desk, which was otherwise haphazardly covered with piles of notes, phials and notebooks. Parletoo grabbed a long and fluffy white quill and laid it carefully on top of the sheet of paper. Then he motioned Harry to take a seat.

"So," he began when they were both settled. "It seems that Mr. Robards wishes you to make a complete recovery from the various symptoms we've both been working on for the last two years. And he seems to think we will have accomplished such a feat by the end of the week."

It was clear from the tone of his voice that he thought Mr. Robards was a complete ignorant of the ways of magical medicine.

"That's what I gathered from my encounter with him," Harry shortly agreed.

Parletoo snorted derisively. "Fine, then. Let's do what we can," he sighed. "Ready?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the quill lying on the white sheet. At once the quill jumped up and stood on its sharp point on the paper, swaying slightly as it waited for the Healer to start talking.

"Mr. Potter's file. Consultation number sixteen," Parletoo announced, and the quill started dancing on the sheet as it took notes. As always, Harry was irresistibly reminded of Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill and he slightly shook his head to get rid of that unpleasant memory.

"Let's start, Mr. Potter," said Parletoo. "We have tried several cures on you since the end of the war, and thank Merlin we've been able to rid you of your most serious symptoms. I believe you don't have headaches anymore, do you?"

"No," Harry answered. That had been a relief. For several months after the end of the war, he had suffered from such terrible headaches that he had been forced to spend several days lying on his bed in the dark.

"You've also lost your disgust for food and your occasional dizziness. Those were the most disturbing symptoms, as they made you totally unable to have a normal life or follow your Auror training. Alas, I fear that those symptoms were but the most external signs of a much more deep-rooted disease. Permanent insomnia, insensibility to pain… even your emotional abilities seem to have been lessened. It sounds as if all your sensitive nerves have been severely harmed, and maybe killed, though by what I am unable to say."

The Healer suddenly straightened up in his armchair and observed Harry very seriously, his pale blue eyes looking even wider and rounder than they usually did.

"I never asked you what exactly happened two years ago. The tests proved you had been the victim of several Cruciatus Curses, and I didn't need any test to know you've been possessed by the Lord of the Death Eaters. I'm experienced enough to recognize a man that has been possessed–it shows in the eyes, you know, even months after the possession. Mental possession is one of the most traumatic experiences existing in the wizarding world, it leaves deep scars. Once I came across to –"

"What's your point, Professor?" Harry asked, cutting across what was without doubt the telling of long reminiscences.

Professor Parletoo looked startled, but quickly recovered his composure. "Oh, yes, I was forgetting, we don't have much time. My point is, I didn't need your telling me everything in order to cure the most obvious symptoms. But now we're talking about uprooting a very rare and apparently very nasty disease. I need to know everything – _everything _– you can tell me on the subject."

Parletoo leaned back in his armchair, still staring intently at Harry. Harry bit his lower lip for a few seconds, his brow furrowed in concentration, then he abruptly raised his head to lock eyes with the old Healer.

"All right," he said, almost brutally.

He closed his eyes and started to speak, slowly and distinctly, carefully choosing his words as the memories came back to him.

"You remember that, in January the last year of the war, the Death Eaters started to isolate Hogwarts from the rest of the wizarding world. They cut all the ways of communication between the school and the Ministry, blew up the Hogwarts Express along with a good part of the railway line, and finally they forced entry in the circle of mountains around Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. They burnt the village to the last straw and then attacked the school itself. They succeeded in entering the grounds in mid-April.

"I was there; it was my last year at Hogwarts. I had returned to the school a mere few weeks before the attack; before that time I had been travelling. I tried to put up the best defence possible against Voldemort's army. I don't think I need to elaborate… Only a few of us were able to fight them. What could first-years or even fourth-years do against fully trained Death Eaters? I would never have let them fight, anyway. It would have been a slaughter.

"The Death Eaters won, as you know. They gathered the students and the teachers in front of the castle. They killed a few students and tortured a few others, just for the fun of it. Then they chained all of them and they sent them to the entrance of the grounds, where other Death Eaters were waiting to take them to Voldemort. The only ones they didn't chain were the teachers, my friends Hermione and Ron and myself."

Harry paused, his eyes still shut. The room was completely silent, and even the scratching noises Parletoo's quill was making had stopped.

"They told the teachers to sit down and watch the show. Then they started teasing my friends and me, saying how strange it was that three miserable dirty-bloods had defied the Dark Lord for so long. They also said they were keeping us alive so that Voldemort could kill us himself, exactly the way he wanted to. Then Bellatrix Lestrange said it didn't mean they couldn't have a little fun with us first. And she told me to run."

Harry's eyes shot open. He had thought that story would be difficult to tell but strangely enough he couldn't stop talking now. He had to get to the end of it.

"She said she wanted to hunt me down, and it would be funnier if I ran. At first I thought I wouldn't give her the satisfaction, but then I realised maybe it was an opportunity – my only opportunity – to escape and lose them in the Forest or something… I hesitated in leaving my friends though. But they had understood too I had a chance to escape the Death Eaters, and they took the decision for me. My friend Ron managed to kick Bellatrix Lestrange's wand out of her hand, and I ran. Ron was brought back under control immediately, and he paid a very high price for helping me… If he hadn't done that, Bellatrix would have cursed me before I had the time to move a muscle.

"I was running as fast as I could, and I was – I still am – quite a fast runner. They just couldn't catch up, and as they were afraid of losing me they started firing hexes in my direction, but they were too slow, I was dodging all of them. The only thing I could have dreaded was an Unforgivable Curse, because it was the only thing powerful enough to reach me when I was running so fast. I didn't have to dread an Avada Kedavra, as they had to keep me alive, and I can resist the Imperius Curse."

There was again a short silence.

"Which leaves only the Cruciatus Curse," Parletoo murmured, his eyes gleaming.

Harry nodded. "Yes. The first one was from Bellatrix. It hit me when I already was at the edge of the Forest. But I didn't stop; it was as if – as if I had lava instead of blood in my veins and all I could think of to forget the pain was keep running. So I ran even faster than before.

"The second one was from Rodolphus Lestrange, shortly after the first. He and his wife were both running after me, and by the sound of it they were having fun… The third was from Nott. By the time it hit me I wasn't even able to see and I kept banging into trees and bushes, but I was still running. Then there was a fourth curse. There were four Death Eaters hunting me down."

"Do you actually mean," said the Healer slowly, his eyes bulging in disbelief, "that you were under four Cruciatus Curses… _at the same time?_"

"It didn't last long," Harry said wearily, "we were running very fast and the run reduced the effects of the curses."

"What happened next?"

"The Lestranges and Nott were killed in the Forest, causing three of the four curses to be lifted. I don't know what happened to the fourth Death Eater. He or she left me in the Forest, where I hid for a week or two."

"You were still under the fourth curse, though," Parletoo pointed out.

Harry nodded, drumming his fingers on the desk. "The fourth curse was less strong than the others," he said, his eyes fixed on his fingers tapping the polished wood one after the other. "Maybe because the caster of the curse wasn't near me anymore. The pain was permanent but it was dull.

"It was then I found myself unable to sleep; I was constantly doing something, because when I kept still for too long the pain grew stronger, and it felt as if it was eating me from the inside. When the curse was suddenly lifted, two months later, I was able to stay immobile without feeling pain but I still couldn't sleep."

"It was lifted? How? When?" Parletoo asked sharply.

"The day after Voldemort's death," Harry answered, feeling suddenly very tired. "I was talking with Professor McGonagall when I felt a shock and everything went black. When I woke up, the pain had gone. I guess I had grown used to it, and when it disappeared the transition was too brutal."

"Most definitely," Parletoo agreed. "But four Cruciatus Curses, even if one of them lasted two months, aren't nearly enough to make you insensible to pain. As strange as it sounds. You should have gone insane," he added with obvious bewilderment, "you definitely should have gone completely mad; but even the insane victims of Cruciatus Curses can still feel pain."

Harry looked at his watch. He had five minutes left to finish his story, which was a relief because he didn't think he would stand it much longer.

"I think," he said, "this particular symptom is due to my last… duel, for lack of a better word… with Voldemort."

"The possession," said Parletoo, the hungry glint back in his eyes.

"Yes and no," said Harry impatiently. "Voldemort did try to possess me, but then something very strange happened. When I was struggling to repel him, I summoned all the magical strength I had left. And it felt as if Voldemort was using all his own power to force entry in my mind… But then our powers escaped both of us."

Silence. The Healer repeated slowly, as if he wasn't sure he understood very well: "Escaped you?"

"Yes," said Harry, rubbing the scar on his forehead in an absentminded gesture. "I felt… something leaving me… and then I felt like a big mass of hot air rising up in the sky, leaving me cold on the ground. And I realised I wasn't able to use my wand anymore. I thought there was no hope left for me then, alone and without any power against Lord Voldemort; but when I looked at Voldemort, I saw Tom Riddle."

"I beg your pardon?" asked the Healer, looking rather lost.

"Voldemort," Harry explained patiently, "had the face and the body of the boy he used to be at Hogwarts, before he immersed himself completely in dark magic. And by the look of it, he couldn't use his wand either; his power had left him just as mine had left me. It reminded me of what happened in the graveyard during the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament: our wands had refused to fight one another; it was the same thing, except that this time the conflict was so violent our _whole_ magical power refused to obey us any longer."

Harry smiled. "Ironic, isn't it? The fate of the world, depending on the result of the fight of two non-magic teenagers…"

"But you killed him!" Parletoo cried out, obviously struggling to keep up with Harry's story.

Harry had a split second's hesitation before answering coldly: "Even Muggles are able to kill."

_There. Simple. Now Parletoo is probably picturing me strangling Voldemort with my bare hands… and technically speaking, I didn't even lie to him._

"When Voldemort died, all my magical power returned to me," he went on before the Healer had time to recover from the shock of his 'revelation'. "It was as if I was caught in a violent wind… and right after that I could use magic again. I can't explain what happened. It just did."

Parletoo nodded absentmindedly, unaware that the quill had got bored while waiting for instructions and was now drawing on the sheet of paper.

"So that would be the loss, then the recovery of your magical power, that caused the trauma…" Parletoo said at last, his gaze lost into space. "It makes sense… it would be even more violent than a possession, causing the entire internal disturbance…"

He went on muttering to himself for a few seconds, during which Harry kept his hands in the pockets of his robes, his fingers crossed, hoping that the Healer wouldn't spot a flaw in his incomplete story and start asking awkward questions. There were things he couldn't reveal. Not now. And not to Professor Merlin Parletoo.

"Professor? I really should be going," he said at last.

Parletoo jerked as if Harry had woken him by yelling in his ear. Looking quite confused, he nodded as he pushed back his armchair and stood up to accompany Harry to the door. As Harry swung his cloak back on his shoulders, Parletoo said:

"I suggest you should come to an arrangement with your Head of Department –" he scornfully sniffed at these words "– so that we could see each other regularly… Contact me by Floo network."

"I'll manage. Goodbye, Professor."

"Goodbye Mr. Potter. It was a pleasure, as always."

Harry shook Parletoo's hand and turned to leave; but then Parletoo's voice held him back.

"Oh, one last question, Mr. Potter… How do you explain the fact you didn't go mad with all those Cruciatus Curses? This is one of the most intriguing facts… The most intriguing, indeed…"

Harry turned to look at the Healer, his expression purposely blank. "You're the expert, Professor. How am I supposed to know?"

Parletoo nodded. "Another mystery we'll try to solve, then," he said cheerfully, as if he was contemplating having his favourite meal. "See you very soon, Mr. Potter!"

Harry wheeled about and hurried towards the staircase. Once more, he had succeeded in avoiding the question without even lying. Truth was, he had a very precise idea of what had kept him sane through Bellatrix Lestrange's cruel games.

The explanation, he had to admit, was all but rational; but this wasn't the reason why he had kept it from Professor Parletoo. When he thought about that day, all he could remember after the three Death Eaters' deaths was the slow, soft murmur of the breeze in the trees, filling his ears even as he should have felt his reason slipping away.

He had been in the old core of the Forbidden Forest then. In that place lay the secret of his miraculous survival, and the secret of Voldemort's death. He wasn't the one who had killed him, but as they had fought they had come close to the core of the Forest. It was there it had happened.

He wondered why the old trees kept trying to save him.

He stopped dead in his tracks and violently shook his head. Trees trying to save him? He must have gone mad after all. The trees were odd, but that didn't mean they were alive…

…Or were they?

"So, how did it go?"

Harry started and found himself face to face with the pretty intern who had saved him from Professor Parletoo's endless babbling. She was much shorter than he was and had to crane her neck to smile up at him.

"Very well, thank you very much," he said, managing a small smile. He thought she was going to move out of his way but she stayed rooted to the spot, eyeing him through her long eyelashes, her eyes half-closed.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" she said with a small smile, tilting her head to one side.

Completely nonplussed, Harry didn't answer. What was she talking about?

"I would never have thought you would ask for my help one day," she went on, laughing slightly. "And I bet you would never have thought so either, two years ago, would you?"

"Erm…" was all Harry could think of as an answer.

How embarrassing. He wasn't very gifted with girls as it was, and the past two years had done nothing to improve his social interactions in general, but this one seemed to actually know him and in spite of all his efforts he could not remember who she was.

The intern was still chattering, batting her eyelashes at him and apparently not noticing his blank expression. "Of course, our relationship had started on a wrong basis, what with Cedric's death and everything…"

Harry mentally smacked himself on the forehead. "Cho Chang?" he said incredulously.

She looked at him with her painted eyebrows raised. "Of course! You hadn't forgotten me, at least?"

"Kind of," said Harry truthfully.

"Well that's nice," Cho spluttered, apparently taken aback by his bluntness.

Harry let out an aggravated sigh. "Sorry," he said impatiently. "I've been a little busy lately, haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts in ages."

"Really? Not even Hermione Granger? Or, what's-her-name, your girlfriend…"

"I don't have a girlfriend."

The finality in Harry's tone surprised both of them. Cho blinked a few times as she tried to retrieve her composure, and Harry gratefully seized the opportunity to walk past her with a murmured, "T'was nice to see you again," and resumed his walk towards the staircase.

"Hey, wait!" Cho called after him. "Ginny… Wasn't her name Ginny? You don't see her anymore?"

"No," Harry ground out, refusing to look back at her as he walked on.

"Oh, come on," Cho continued, a hint of bitterness in her voice. "She has _you_ for a boyfriend, the most famous man on the planet, and she doesn't even try to —"

"Drop it," Harry snapped, whirling around to face her. "I don't have a girlfriend. That's it."

Once more, Cho seemed to be shocked by his brutality. Reduced to silence mid-sentence, she stood there with her mouth still open, visibly pained and struggling to understand what was going on. Harry felt a slight pang of remorse as her almond-shaped eyes sought his as if she was looking for something known and familiar to cling to.

"I'm sorry," he said in a calmer voice. "I didn't mean to… Anyway… To answer your question, the situation is simple enough: I haven't seen Ginny in months. But I'd rather not talk about it."

She mechanically nodded, dropping her eyes to the tiled floor; and Harry finally left, his footsteps echoing on the walls of the empty spiral staircase with the mournful monotony of a knell.


	3. Confrontations

**Chapter Three: Confrontations**

Harry Apparated in the tiny dark courtyard squeezed between four tall buildings, in one of the shabbiest areas of London. Rummaging in an inside pocket of his cloak for his bunch of keys, he raised his head out of habit to look at the closed shutters masking the windows of his small apartment, on the sixth floor.

The shutters were open.

Harry froze. The only person who knew the exact spell to unlock his door – though Harry preferred to use his keys, as he was eager not to be noticed using magic in the building – was Lance. He came to Harry's place when his own flat was so messy and the stench so strong he couldn't possibly live there. In that case he would hire a housekeeper to clean his flat – a feat that required two days of hard working – and would hang around at Harry's in the meantime.

But he would do absolutely nothing to keep Harry's apartment clean or welcoming. Opening the shutters, for instance.

Harry inserted his key in the lock of the heavy door leading into the building and turned it to the right. The electronic lock emitted a loud ticking sound and the door opened. Not even bothering to look at the old and wheezy lift, which had obviously broken down once more, he climbed the six floors on foot as silently as he could. When he arrived on the landing outside his flat, he noticed a ray of light filtering through the crack under the door. Muffled scraping sounds could be heard inside the flat, as if someone was moving the furniture.

Whoever they were, it was clear they didn't care being heard.

Harry clenched his hand around his keys to stifle their noisy clicking and put them back in his inside pocket. Silently drawing his wand from his belt – even though he was beginning to doubt he would need it – he swiftly moved to his door and unlocked it with a quick non-verbal spell. Then he seized the doorknob and opened the door wide in an abrupt action.

Someone was bent double in the middle of the small living room, their outline barely visible in the cloud of dust hanging in the air and bathed in the rare light flowing from the open windows. When the door opened, they jumped in shock with a high-pitched squeal and straightened up; a wand appeared from nowhere and a spell shot in Harry's direction with a bang. Harry blocked it and reflexively raised his own wand to disarm his opponent, when the stranger spoke in a shrill, familiar voice.

"Harry! You scared me, couldn't you be less _brusque_ when you open the door?"

Harry lowered his wand, gaping in amazement at the girl glaring at him from the middle of his living room, her left hand clutching her heaving chest as she held her wand with her right.

"Hermione?" he said in disbelief.

"Of course, who did you think it was?" she snapped.

She stuffed her wand in the back pocket of her tattered jeans and brushed the dust off her knees. Harry then noticed she was wearing old and dirty clothes, and her bushy hair was hidden under a scarf.

"I'm not used to seeing you in that outfit," he pointed out as he put away his own wand.

"Well, I could hardly wear a dress to clean this mess, could I?" Hermione replied, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she gestured around the room.

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Hermione Granger the housekeeper?" he said amusedly. He stepped over the heaps of the various things that had been gathered from the floor and piled up in front of the front door; Hermione watched him join her in the middle of the room with both hands on her hips.

"Don't you start," she warned, pointing a threatening finger at him. "Ron already laughs his empty head off every time I try to cook or clean my flat. I'm not even _that_ bad, I'm getting better; I really am! And anyway, by the look of it –" She gestured around her again, "– you can hardly give me advice about housekeeping."

"I don't really live here," said Harry. "I just drop by from time to time, to change clothes and stuff; so I don't see why I should bother keeping the flat clean. Apart from me, Lance is the only one to come here and he's too lazy to move a finger when his life doesn't depend on it… How did you get in, by the way?"

"Oh, come on, Harry, your Locking Spell was so easy to break it was _laughable,_" said Hermione, rolling her eyes. "I thought I had taught you better."

"Why would I bother with a complicated Locking Spell?" Harry automatically replied. "There's nothing to steal here."

Hermione rolled her eyes again, her reaction so typical that Harry couldn't repress a smile as he realised he hadn't had a real conversation with her in two years. It suddenly felt as if they were back at Hogwarts. She smiled back at him and an awkward silence fell between them. Harry was uncertain how to break it; it would sound too casual to propose a drink and speak as if those two years had never happened, but on the other hand he really didn't know how to say he had missed her. After all, he was the one who had been avoiding Hermione and Ron for the last two years.

The problem was solved when Hermione suddenly flung herself at him, throwing both arms around his neck and taking him completely unawares.

"Hermione… it's – it's okay, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," he stammered, awkwardly stroking her scarf-covered head as she hugged him as if she wanted to choke him to death.

"Never," she sobbed, her face buried in his shoulder. "Never leave us alone for so long again."

"I promise," Harry murmured comfortingly.

This whole scene felt so familiar… He was taken aback to feel as if those two years had, indeed, never happened. As if he was seeing her for the first time after Voldemort's death. As if there had not been all those rumours about him. As if he wasn't – had never been – abnormal…

She was calming down a bit now. Her head resting on his shoulder, she mumbled: "We missed you…" in a barely audible whisper. Harry felt a lump in his throat.

"I – I'm sorry I was so distant, Hermione, it's just–"

"It's okay, don't apologise," she said thickly, releasing him and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "We knew you needed time and space and we weren't going to force our company on you. But I'm not saying we weren't worried sick about you. I almost expected you not to recognise me, to tell the truth. I'm so glad to see you again…"

Now she was beaming; her lips were stretched in that smile Harry knew well, a wide smile that showed her teeth and dug a dimple in her round cheeks.

"I'm glad to see you too," Harry answered awkwardly.

He was a bit lost in the sudden and furious battle that had awoken inside him when Hermione had hugged him: a mixture of joy, concern, regret and a few other violent emotions he couldn't clearly define. He had got out of the habit of feeling so many emotions at the same time; it was like waking up from a very long and deep sleep. For the second time in two days, he felt strangely alive again.

"Harry… Are you all right?" Hermione softly inquired.

Harry mentally shook himself and smiled to reassure her. Turning away from her in an attempt to escape the rush of emotions that the sight of her provoked in him, he got rid of his travelling cloak and tossed it on a chair.

"I had decided to take up with Ron and you again, you know," he said apologetically. "Well, you must have guessed that from my letter. Only I didn't expect to find you in my apartment. Did you think I would try to avoid the confrontation at the last minute?" he asked, sitting on the couch, which was covered with clothes in various states of shabbiness and dirtiness, and clearing a space next to him so she could sit, too.

"If you mean the letter in which you speak about having dinner in Diagon Alley, I _think_ it would have been more effective if you had actually sent it," said Hermione.

When he looked blankly at her, she took a scroll of parchment out of her pocket and showed it to him. "I found it on your desk."

Harry considered in disbelief the letter in Hermione's hand. "I – forgot to send it," he stated, feeling extremely stupid.

Hermione raised her eyes to the ceiling, though she was smiling. "I wonder how you managed to survive for two years without anybody to look after you," she muttered.

"Oh, you know – eating bread and cheese and giving the dirty linen to the dry cleaner's from time to time," Harry answered distractedly. "So, if you didn't get my letter, why did you come here? I mean, now, after two years…?"

"Professor McGonagall told me she had seen you," said Hermione. "She looked pretty worried about you, and she seemed to think you had had all the time and space you needed and that it was high time I'd start looking after you _again._ So here I am, in this filthy _den_ of yours, cleaning and tidying."

She joined him on the couch and kicked off her shoes. She leaned back with a groan of relief, took off the scarf hiding her hair and combed the long bushy mane with her fingers.

"And believe me, that's pretty tiring," she sighed.

Harry stretched in the couch, feeling the weariness of a particularly intense day of training weighing his limbs – though he knew his tiredness was nothing compared to the state of complete exhaustion most of his fellow apprentices were probably in. It was another advantage of his "abnormality": though he was permanently suffering from immense mental fatigue that prevented him from feeling the slightest curiosity or interest, it took several days of hard physical efforts to really exhaust him.

Out of habit, he pulled out his wand and pointed it in the direction of the kitchen.

"_Accio Firewhisky!_" he said.

The kitchen door was ajar and was pushed open as a bottle slammed into it from the inside of the kitchen. The bottle flew into the living room and Harry caught it easily.

"Want some?" he asked Hermione as he uncorked it.

"No thanks," she said, her nose wrinkled in disgust once more. "You're drinking that _thing_?"

Harry nodded as he raised the bottle to his lips and took a long sip of the amber-coloured substance.

"Why?" he asked when he had put the bottle down, his voice slightly hoarse. "What's wrong with that?"

"Harry, this has to be the strongest alcohol in the whole wizarding world," she said severely.

"Not quite as strong as the Russian Lavavodka," Harry said in an unconcerned voice. "But I didn't think of bringing some from there. Ah well, I'll ask Lance, he owes me a few bottles and I bet he smuggled loads of that vodka into Great Britain."

"Who's that _Lance_?" Hermione inquired, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Harry shrugged. "Just a guy from work," he said. "Lance Colman."

"Colman?" Hermione repeated. "Slytherin, a year above us?"

"Possibly," said Harry, startled. "How do you know that? I had never heard his name before beginning Auror training."

"Oh, I put him in detention once because I had found him sprawled on the marble stairs, completely drunk," Hermione answered with an impatient wave of her hand, as if it was perfectly normal to find drunk teenagers sleeping on staircases. "I'm not surprised you're alcoholic if you hang around with Colman."

"I'm not _alcoholic_," said Harry, now a little annoyed. Why did she have to be so bossy?

Hermione snorted. "You don't even wince or squint when you gulp down that stuff," she said, jerking her chin towards the bottle in Harry's hand. "It should burn your throat, but no, you're so used to it you don't even feel it anymore."

Harry didn't answer. Ignoring Hermione's disapproving sniff, he raised the bottle to his lips and drank again. The amber liquid felt warm in his throat and the strong smell of it was enveloping him. The alcohol was beginning to act, drowning his brain in a pleasant dizziness. Alcohol always had that quick effect on him, but it took more than a few gulps to get him drunk. He always was the one to carry Lance back to the flat after they had gone to some bar.

"I never really felt it, you know," he said slowly.

He felt Hermione stiffening next to him.

"Felt what?"

He turned his head to look at her. "The alcohol. It doesn't burn, it's just… warm."

Hermione took in a deep breath, without breaking eye contact.

"Harry," she said slowly, and very seriously, "I never really listened to the rumours going round about you – not that I heard them myself, mind. Ron is telling me about them when he goes out at night. He's heard the weirdest things about you… But then this morning, McGonagall told me a blood-chilling story. Something about you having inches-long splinters into your hand and not feeling it."

Harry glanced down and looked at his right hand. He had completely forgotten about that incident – it happened to him all the time after all. His skin had healed unnaturally fast; there was already no trace left on it except thin white scars. They would have completely disappeared by the following morning.

"And now you're telling me you never felt the taste of Firewhisky," Hermione went on. "Ron and I are both worried about you, Harry; I think – I think Ron was pretty hurt at first because you wouldn't tell us anything about yourself or Voldemort. But then we understood whatever happened was – was so terrible you had to get used to it before you talk to us. We just had to look at you to see it… you were always wandering alone, not speaking, not even noticing us when we were there…"

A heavy silence fell again. Harry kept his eyes fixed on the bottle he held, silently contemplating the simmering reflects dancing on the surface of the golden liquid. Then he felt Hermione's hand on his shoulder.

"My point is," she said gently, "whenever you want to talk about it, know we're there. We're there for you, Harry."

Harry was nervously biting his lip. His encounter with Cho, earlier at St. Mungo's, had brought back old memories from his years at Hogwarts, memories of the time when his greatest concern was the fact that Ron had had a go at Cho because she was supporting the Tornados… Usually when he thought about that time – though that didn't happen very often, as he always did his best to push those memories aside –, the awareness of his former happiness and of the futility of his teenage problems had thoroughly disgusted him. It somehow made his new state even more unbearable.

But not today… Today, remembering hadn't left that bitter taste in his mouth; quite the contrary, it was as if he had inhaled a puff of fresh air. It had only reinforced his desire to contact his friends.

And now Hermione was stirring in him all those powerful emotions.

"Okay," he said suddenly.

"Okay what?" said Hermione, sounding a bit wary.

"Let's talk," Harry answered. "What do you want to know?"

Hermione abruptly stood up.

"We should go somewhere else," she said brusquely. "I told Ron to join me at the Leaky Cauldron, at eight thirty. You're coming?"

He nodded and stood up, too, putting on his travelling cloak while Hermione put her shoes back on and brushed the dust off her clothes. He took two steps towards the door but Hermione stopped him with an imperious gesture. Taking her wand, she waved it in his direction, muttering, "_Pluputois_".

Nothing happened that Harry was aware of. Then he realised that his throat had gone horribly dry and that the smell of whisky floating around him had disappeared.

"You really stank," said Hermione in a defensive tone.

"And how come my throat's all dry?" said Harry quite hoarsely.

"I still have to get rid of the side-effect," Hermione answered with a smirk, as Harry Summoned a glass from the kitchen, filled it with water and drank it all in one gulp. "Apart from that, I'm rather proud of that little invention of mine."

Harry, who had swallowed half a litre of water by the time she'd reached the end of her sentence, decided not to argue and followed Hermione out of his flat and down the stairs.

The Leaky Cauldron was, as usual, crowded and noisy. Hermione dragged Harry behind her as she confidently forced her way through the throng of customers, mainly composed of Ministry workers who had just finished their day.

"Hello Tom," she said brightly to the old barman. "Can you find us a table?"

"Of course Miss Granger," answered Tom with a toothless grin. "Your usual table, in the corner. Is Mr. Weasley joining you tonight?"

"I hope so," said Hermione distractedly. People had started to shoot dark looks at her and Harry, hastily looking away when Harry met their eyes. A few wizards paid for their half-finished drinks and hurried out of the bar.

"What's their problem?" Hermione hissed.

"I really wonder," said Harry sarcastically.

Comprehension dawned on Hermione's face. She looked slowly from a witch's terrified face to Harry's stony expression and back again. Then before Harry had time to stop her, she sprang forward and firmly planted herself in front of the witch, who recoiled slightly, clutching her drink to her chest.

"He's not going to bite," said Hermione loudly.

Her voice echoed in the pub and all the conversations died away. All heads turned to look at the three of them – the young witch, still clutching her drink and pale as a ghost as she fearfully looked up at Hermione, who had her hands on her hips, and Harry, petrified at the bar.

"He's my best friend from Hogwarts and I can assure you he never tried to murder me or hex me or anything of the sort," Hermione went on pleasantly. "Even when I tried to force him to do his Transfiguration homework…"

"Hermione," Harry began cautiously, "I think she got the point."

Hermione waved away his interruption and continued talking.

"Of course, every time he would give me the 'to-each-one-their-abilities' rubbish, and say it was enough to be good at Quidditch. As if _Quidditch _mattered!"

"Is it absolutely necessary to talk about _Quidditch—"_ Harry furiously whispered, speaking through gritted teeth as he seized Hermione's arm and pulled her towards him.

"You know what your problem is, Hermione?" said a loud voice from the entrance of the pub. "You never understood a _thing_ about Quidditch."

Both Harry and Hermione wheeled about to face Ron Weasley, who was casually pushing customers out of his way as he made to the bar.

"What's the big deal about Quidditch?" Hermione said impatiently; but Harry could have sworn he had seen the corners of her mouth twitch. "It's just a stupid game played on stupid flying broomsticks where you're very likely to end up at the Hospital Wing!"

"I never ended up at the Hospital Wing after a Quidditch match," said Ron defensively.

"Do you know how many times Harry nearly killed himself because he absolutely wanted to catch that stupid ball with wings?" Hermione shot at him, her voice rising even more. Apart from their argument, there was a ringing silence in the pub. Harry closed his eyes and shook his head in despair.

"The ball is called a Snitch, Hermione," Ron retorted impatiently. "And I would have thought you would be proud of Harry for risking his neck in winning Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup! He wasn't going to let some git like _Malfoy_ win the game, was he? You're storming against Quidditch because you're just afraid of heights."

"I am _not!_ I already played Quidditch with you!"

"She did," Harry interjected, wanting to be fair. "And now that's been said, would the pair of you be kind enough to shut—"

"Because you _made_ her!" said Ron, throwing his hands up. "She wouldn't have climbed on a broomstick willingly, but you did your puppy eyes and she couldn't resist!"

"_I never do_ — okay, I suggest you get to the point, Hermione," Harry said tiredly, seeing Hermione was about to retort. "Then pair of you can argue later. Preferably when I'm not around."

"As if you — What? Oh, yes, you're right. It's not worth it anyway," Hermione said scornfully.

She resolutely turned her back on Ron to face the witch she had been talking to. The girl, who had undoubtedly felt relieved when Hermione's attention had been distracted by Ron's arrival, let out a pitiful squeal and recoiled again in her chair.

"My point is," Hermione said in an amiable voice, "there is no need to look at Harry like that. He's very polite and well mannered. Now get up and say hello to him. Come on, get—"

"That'll be enough, I think," Harry interrupted loudly as the girl whimpered in fright, and wishing he had never interrupted the argument.

"Of course not. She didn't say hello to you."

"She _doesn't know me. _Why would she — err, good evening, Miss."

In a last and desperate attempt to silence Hermione, the young witch had finally risen from her chair and now stood in front of Harry, her cheeks scarlet as she nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"Good evening Mr. Potter," she answered in a slightly trembling voice, her eyes resolutely attached to the floor.

"Well… I'm sorry we've disturbed you for — that," Harry said dismissively; he shot at Hermione a murderous look, to which she answered with a snort.

"No problem Mr. Potter," the girl squeaked in a voice as high-pitched as a house-elf's. "I'm sorry I was looking at you like that, it's just r–really upsetting to see you in the real life… It's not that I was scared or anything…"

_Yeah right._

"That's okay," said Harry gently, forcing his lips into a smile.

The girl shyly smiled back and stayed there, absent-mindedly twisting her hands together as she shot anxious glances at Hermione.

"Very good," said the latter with an appreciative smile. "Now you may go back to your drink."

The poor girl mumbled a grateful "Thank you" and literally ran to her chair, where she collapsed and buried her face in her hands.

"End of the show!" Ron shouted unexpectedly, causing Harry to start. "You can start staring at something else, you're embarrassing us!"

With those words he firmly seized Hermione and Harry by the elbow and led them to a small table in a corner of the pub. Tom came to them within seconds, chuckling.

"Quite impressive, Miss Granger," he said appreciatively as he rubbed the wooden surface with a handful of his apron. "Good evening Mr. Weasley, I haven't seen you in two weeks, have you found a pub you liked better than the old Leaky Cauldron?"

"Wouldn't cheat on you like that, Tom, who do you think I am?" Ron replied in mock indignation.

Tom bowed with a wide smile before turning to Harry.

"Ah… Mr. Potter… I haven't seen you lately either. It's a shame; it's such a pleasure for me to serve such a great wizard. I enjoy so much telling my customers how I received you here for the first time. It was seven years ago, you had blown up your aunt and fled to the Leaky Cauldron."

"And do your customers like hearing that story?" Harry asked before he could stop himself. "Or do they try to convince you I was planning to murder you at the time by sucking all the blood out of you?"

Tom blinked once or twice, giving Harry the time to realise how aggressive he had sounded. But before he could utter another word, Tom's smile was back on his wrinkled face with slightly unnerving suddenness.

"Those who don't like hearing my stories aren't my customers for very long, Mr. Potter. And those who spread nasty rumours about you would be better to leave my pub before I slip them a drink laced with something funny…" Tom's toothless smile widened. "An old barman is allowed to make such mistakes, after all."

"Thank you Tom," said Hermione firmly. Tom bowed again and retreated.

"See Harry?" Hermione brightly concluded. "Tom doesn't believe them."

Harry very much wanted to snap at her for embarrassing him in front of everyone earlier, but the words died on his lips when he saw the beaming smile she sent him. She seemed to be in an excellent mood, and that was enough of a rare occurrence that he would lack the courage to provoke her ire again — thus risking another scene. He resolved to ask for explanations later; there were more important matters at hand.

"I'm glad to see you again, mate," Ron then said. "It's been a long time. How was Siberia?"

"Cold, unwelcoming and boring," Harry answered. "I'm glad to be back as well… I intended to see the pair of you as soon as possible…"

He swallowed and stared down at his hands, spread on the table in front of him. For the first time in years, he paid attention to the thin white lines, forming words on the back of his right hand.

_I must not tell lies._

"I've got to tell you something," he murmured.

"We're listening," said Ron.

Harry began to speak.

Ron's and Hermione's eyes grew round and wide as he went on. Hermione gasped audibly several times, and Ron's face was getting darker and darker as Harry told them about his run in the Forest, blinded by pain and chased by four Death Eaters; three of which never came out of the Forest.

"– And so three of the four curses were lifted; the fourth Death Eater left the forest and I hid there for several days."

There was a few seconds' silence.

"We don't know who the fourth Death Eater was," Ron said. "I didn't see the face, it was hidden under the hood. Well, I was lying on the ground and insulting the Death Eater who was busy hexing me, so I didn't pay much attention to anything else, but I still saw that maniac running after you after he or she cursed you. I really hoped whoever it was would meet Grawp," he added with an ugly look on his face.

"By the way, _how_ did the Lestranges and Nott get killed?" Hermione asked.

"Let's think," said Ron with a mock thoughtful look on his face. "What dwells in that Forest? We have a wide choice between Aragog's little family, Hagrid's kid brother, Firenze's nice little friends and possibly a hundred of other amiable creatures. I _can't_ see how they didn't manage to survive in a place inhabited by such charming people –"

"It was the trees," Harry said brusquely.

Ron blinked several times. "The trees?" he repeated faintly.

Harry nodded. Now there was no turning back.

"There is a place, deep in the Forest, where the trees are much – much more conscious than in the rest of the Forest. I stumbled in that place when I was running in front of the Death Eaters and they followed me in. I wasn't thinking straight, I was too busy trying to escape the Cruciatus Curses, but I still was able to feel the – hostility. The trees were furious we had broken in. They let me in, though; they even let me stay there for a couple of days after the Death Eaters were killed.

"After they died, leaving me there, I was lying on the ground and I was hearing a sound like – like a breeze in the leaves, but I couldn't feel the breeze. It sounded like an old song. I should have gone mad with the pain, but that sound was soothing…"

Hermione and Ron were completely silent and watched him with a thunderstruck expression. Harry suddenly feared they wouldn't believe him.

"Look, I know it's crazy," he said in an urgent whisper. "But that's what happened. That's all I can remember. That's the only thing that can explain why I haven't gone mad. That – that song the trees were singing… it kept me sane."

Ron had still the same shocked expression. Hermione looked as if she was struggling to put together the pieces of a very difficult jigsaw.

"So the trees were on your side," she said slowly.

"You could say that, yes," said Harry wearily.

"The _trees_ caused the Death Eaters' deaths?"

"Yes," said Harry. He unconsciously gripped hard the edge of the table. "It was – horrible. I had just crossed a river with some difficulty, and they were on the other shore, shouting after me. I collapsed on the shore where I had arrived, because I was completely exhausted and I just couldn't run anymore. Then Bellatrix entered the river to come after me, and a gigantic willow just – grabbed her from behind – and the branches started to envelop her whole body, squeezing her – and she was shrieking in pain, and other trees seized the other Death Eaters… And there was laughing in the air, cruel and clear laughing…"

Harry closed his eyes and distractedly rubbed his lightening-shaped scar. The memory was sickening. Hermione leaned across the table and put a hand on his.

"Harry, don't tell us anything else. Especially not here. Don't tell anybody about the trees, right?"

"What?" said Harry, his eyes jerking open in shock. "Why? First you tell me I need to talk to somebody, second you ask me to keep everything to myself –"

"Did you understand what I did when we came into the pub?" Hermione asked, speaking over him. "When I started talking to that girl who acted as if you were Voldemort himself?"

"I was too taken aback by your little show to question your reasons," said Harry dryly, his anger firing up again at the reminder. "But now you mention it, I hope you had a good reason for embarrassing me like that in front of everybody."

"I was showing everybody you were _normal_, Harry!" Hermione hissed. "For all those people you were a dark creature sneaking in the night and plotting Merlin knows what horrors. Now they see you as we know you: our best friend, who was still at Hogwarts a mere two years ago! A normal twenty-year-old, with his flaws and his strengths, like every single customer of Tom's! You just need to be _demystified,_ Harry. The mystery around you sustains the rumours going round."

"I don't give a damn about those rumours, most of them are absolutely ludicrous –"

"I don't think you understand the situation," said Ron in a low voice. "Most wizards are scared of you. The Heads of some Departments at the Ministry hate you and fear you as well. I can tell, I'm working for one of those gits."

Ron was working at the Accidental Magic Reversal Department.

"They're looking for a reason to lock you up in Azkaban for good, and it'll be more easily done if the whole wizarding community is convinced you're dangerous," Ron went on. "Better put as many people as possible on your side, don't you think?"

Harry sighed, admitting defeat. "All right, I got it. I guess I should even thank you for what you've done."

"You're welcome. It was fun," Ron answered with a broad grin.

"As long as you _never_ do that again," Harry grumbled.

"Anyway, I was saying you shouldn't speak about trees singing and killing in the Leaky Cauldron," Hermione said, lowering her voice so that Ron and Harry had to bend forward to hear her. "That is just too weird. Too scary."

"But you believe me, don't you?" Harry murmured.

"Of course we do, we trust you," Ron said gruffly. "Even if you didn't seem to be aware of that, these past years. Now we're on speaking terms again, you wouldn't mind dropping by at home from time to time, would you? Mum is so worried about you, I don't have a moment of peace when I am at home. Always asking me if I've seen you lately. Twelve times a day!"

"Oh… well, sorry," said Harry sheepishly. "How is everyone in your family?"

"Okay, I guess," said Ron, but he suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Yes, everyone's fine."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "And Ginny?"

Ron squirmed in his seat. "She misses you, I think… she's not very demonstrative…"

"She wanted to talk to you, but we convinced her not to bump into your life for the time being," said Hermione softly.

Harry nodded. "You did well," he said. "I really wouldn't have known what to tell her. What – what does she want from me, exactly?"

Ron and Hermione exchanged a furtive look, then Ron shrugged. "You'll have to ask her," he said.

Ron rose and flung his cloak around his shoulders.

"Right – it's not that I'm not enjoying your company, but I escaped duty this afternoon at the only condition I would be in the night team. So I'll leave you here, I've got a whole night of obeying the thick-skulled pit-bull I have for a boss to look forward to. O joy," he moaned, rolling his eyes. "See you soon, both of you."

They said their goodbyes and Ron left. At once Tom hurried to their table and leaned forward with a shrewd expression on his face.

"So, Miss Granger? Did he propose?" he asked hungrily.

"Not yet, Tom," answered Hermione with a small smile. "When he does, you'll be the first to know. I promise."

Tom left with another wink. Harry and Hermione rose to their feet and put their cloaks back on.

"Talking about marriage, already?" Harry asked with a smirk.

Hermione blushed slightly, but she didn't seem displeased.

"Kind of. We never actually _talked_ about it, but with the Weasley brothers' heavy hints every time they find Ron and me in the same room…" She rolled her eyes. "Subtlety is really not their main characteristic, is it?" she sighed.

"And Ron, what does he say?"

"Nothing!" Hermione cried out, throwing her hands up in mock frustration. "Absolutely nothing! He's acting as if he didn't realise that everybody's expecting him to propose to me! It's driving me completely mad; we're bickering even _more_ than before!"

"I'm glad I don't have to stand between the pair of you anymore, then," Harry said.

They stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron and stood still for a moment in the darkening street. Harry hesitantly turned to Hermione.

"If – If he does say something about it, in the end… let me know, right?"

Hermione beamed at him. "Of course, what do you think?" she said, half-laughing. "And you'll be best man."

Then, before he had time to recover from what she had just said, she hugged him for the second time that day.

"Take care of yourself," she whispered in his ear. Releasing him, she Disapparated.

Harry heaved a deep sigh, smiling to himself. He felt incredibly alive; was the remedy for his illness that simple? Did he just need to see his friends to feel better?

Harry took his keys from his inside pocket and held them in his hand. They felt neither cold nor warm. He clenched his hand tightly around them, until the metal dig into his flesh. He opened his fist; there were red marks on his skin, but he felt no pain. Not even a slight twinge.

He sighed again, cursing himself for getting his hopes up so quickly. Shaking his head in disappointment, he Disapparated.

He was climbing the stairs leading to his apartment, his head bowed, immersed in his thoughts. As he reached the landing of the sixth floor, he found out the already eventful day had a few surprises left in store for him.

His front door was ajar, and voices were coming from his living room.

He stood on the threshold and quietly pushed the door, widening slightly the opening. The voices grew louder and clearer.

"– listen, I have absolutely no reason to believe you're a friend of Harry's. I let you in, which is already immensely generous from me, now stop bothering me and sit down. You're making me tired just by looking at you."

Harry recognized Lance's voice. Reassured, he entered the apartment and slammed the door shut behind him.

Lance was sprawled on the couch; his shirt and shoes were off and he had a bottle in his hand. He turned his head with a grimace when the door slammed – Lance had developed an absolute hatred for violent noises due to his almost permanent hangover – and upon recognising Harry he raised his bottle to greet him.

"Hey Potter!" he drawled. "There is somebody here for you…"

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the window. Harry's eyes followed his gesture and his smile abruptly slipped off his face as he recognized the person standing there with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Ginny?" he said feebly.

A heavy silence fell in the living room. Harry watched the thin apparition standing in the middle of the filthy, dusty room. Her sleeveless shirt and her short skirt showed her long, thin members; she had let her red hair down and the fiery locks framed her white-skinned face. She looked… unchanged, unscarred, and extraordinarily out of place in the sinister surroundings.

Ginny Weasley had been staring at him hungrily; when he didn't move or say anything else, she said with a slight smile, "Are we going to look at each other until one of us drops dead?"

Harry pulled himself together. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a barely audible whisper.

Ginny uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips.

"Maybe it would be easier for us to talk if your _friend_ was smart enough to leave us," she said, jerking her chin in Lance's direction.

Lance raised his eyebrows at her.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ginny," he began.

"Weasley to you," Ginny spat disgustedly.

"Miss Weasley," Lance went on with a smirk. "Now I remember you. You were the Gryffindor champion of the Bat-Bogey Hex at school, weren't you?"

"I'm still pretty good at it," said Ginny threateningly, as her hand moved slyly to her pocket.

"Lance, please go to the bedroom," said Harry curtly. "And take your vodka with you."

"Sure, I wouldn't leave the vodka here," Lance snorted. "Have fun with your redhead, Harry."

With those words he laboriously extricated himself from the couch and dragged his feet to the bedroom.

Ginny watched the door shutting behind Lance's retreating back with a mixture of disgust and disdain.

"Where did you dig up that drunkard?" she asked Harry, shaking her head with an expression of utter disbelief.

"Lance is an Auror apprentice, as I am," Harry said briefly. He turned away from Ginny and pulled his robes over his head. Just in his short-sleeved shirt and trousers, he collapsed on the couch and grabbed the bottle of Firewhisky he had opened earlier.

Ginny moved closer to him and sat on the edge of the couch.

"That definitively looks like a single man's place," she commented, looking all around her.

"Ginny," Harry said brusquely, "please get to the point."

Her eyes snapped in his direction, and her gaze was distinctly cooler – though Harry could tell she was also hurt by his abruptness.

"You're a rude asshole, do you know that?" she said lightly, as if she wasn't really affected by his words. "Can I have some?" she added with a pointed look at the bottle. Harry nodded.

"Help yourself," he said, giving her the bottle.

To his great surprise, she didn't conjure a glass but lifted the bottle to her lips without bending her wrist and took a long sip. Her eyes closed as she gulped down the alcohol and her whole body shivered.

"It's strong," she murmured as she lowered the bottle, her eyes still closed. She gave Harry the bottle back, which he took without a word as he watched her licking her lips in delight.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Ginny asked pleasantly. "Is it the first time you see a woman drinking Firewhisky?"

"You seem rather used to drinking," Harry said with half a shrug, corking the bottle. "It surprised me, that's all."

"Yeah, as if you knew me well," muttered Ginny, leaning back in the couch.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked in an even voice.

"You bloody well know what it's supposed to mean," she said, sounding now quite impatient. "You've been avoiding me for the past two years, so don't act as if you knew what I'm used to doing or not doing."

Harry fell silent.

"Defend yourself at least!" Ginny said, sitting bolt upright and glaring at him. "Don't hide behind your silence again. I thought you were braver than this, Harry!"

"I can return you the compliment," said Harry, in a voice so harsh he surprised even himself. "We haven't talked for two years, so don't _you_ act as if you knew what I'd do or not do."

Ginny's eyes flashed dangerously.

"You know what I can't stand with you?" she shot at him. "The way you're wallowing in self-pity every time something bad happens to you. I can't see what you like in it – but you do seem to feel a kind of sadistic pleasure in hearing all the rumours going round about you. That's exactly what you did when you thought you were being possessed by Voldemort. You hid and you delighted in your own loneliness. You're the martyr, aren't you, Harry?"

Harry was oddly calm. He should have been furious, he should have been yelling at her; but no. He had snapped out of the sort of state of grace he had been in since he had seen Hermione and Ron. Now he was back in his former personality – cold, indifferent, unfeeling.

"You know nothing," he stated. "You can't draw conclusions that quickly."

"Then talk to me!" she exclaimed, drawing closer to him. "Don't leave me in the dark! I want to understand!"

He looked at her. Her face was alight with hope; she hadn't changed since his sixth year, she was still witty, brave and daring Ginny Weasley. The Ginny Weasley who had decided to be happy in spite of everything – in spite of the war, the losses and the wounds. She had defied death and danger, she had laughed in the Death Eaters' faces, she had been as strong as the grown-up members of the Order. And thanks to that, she had come unharmed out of the war. She had won the war in every possible way.

And that was why she would never understand what was wrong with him; because he, Harry, had lost the war. He had changed, he had been harmed, he was no longer the teenager she had always known.

"Don't you care about me?" she asked, her voice steady despite the sudden brightness of her brown eyes.

Harry shook his head. "I care about you, but I can't tell you."

She drew in a shuddering breath.

"I love you, Harry."

"No," said Harry softly. "You love someone who died two years ago."

"Don't say that. I love you, I know I do, and I know you've been upset by the events of the war. Harry, you wouldn't be in the state you're in now if you hadn't closed your heart to your friends – and to me. It's time you should go on with your life, do you hear me? You have a chance to lead a normal life now, in spite of all you've been through. You have to fight!"

Harry didn't say anything. He was just looking at her; he detachedly noted that she was beautiful, speaking animatedly, her face flushed and her eyes bright with fervour.

She stopped talking and her hands fell to her sides.

"I love you," she repeated, "and I've waited two years for you. I can't stand it anymore. Please, tell me you're coming back to me, tell me you're going to fight. I miss you horribly."

Harry shifted his position on the couch so that he was facing her completely.

"Ginny, listen," he said calmly. "You need to stop waiting for me. The war caused a damage too severe for me to ever consider being with you again –"

"The war didn't only affect you!" she said violently. "Do you listen to yourself? You're talking as if you were the only one who had suffered from it! I went through it all as well!"

"You're stronger than me," said Harry, his tone colder. "You won your war. I lost mine. You can do as if nothing had happened, you can go on with your life; I can't. My life, I already had it, and believe me you were a very nice part of it. Maybe one day I will get over all – all that. But not now. Now I'm not ready."

Ginny lowered her eyes and stared at her hands for a few seconds. Then she spoke quietly, coldly, and her words rang through the darkening living room.

"If you couldn't get over it in two years, even for me, there are only two possibilities. Either you will never be able to get over it, or you don't care enough about me to do it for me. Either case, I lose you."

She slowly rose, without looking at him, and picked her jacket from the back of a wobbly chair. Harry watched her as she put it on and walked to the door. Just before getting out of the flat, she looked back.

"I love you Harry," she whispered, and this time Harry could hear the tears in her voice. "But I can't wait for you all my life. I'm sorry."

Harry didn't look up when the door slammed behind Ginny.

After a few minutes he heard the bedroom door opening with a creak and Lance's approaching footsteps. Then Lance let himself fall on the couch next to him. He studied Harry's face for a few minutes, before wordlessly handling him the bottle of vodka.

Harry accepted it and drank a long gulp of the burning liquid. His head began to swim again; he waited until the effect of the alcohol subsided, then he abruptly stood up and reached under the couch for his Invisibility Cloak.

"Going for your nocturnal walk?" Lance asked.

"As usual," Harry answered briskly, disappearing under the Cloak.

"I'll leave the door open for you."

"Thanks. See you tomorrow."

Harry strode across the room and went down the six floors. The refreshing wind caressed his face as he stepped in the small courtyard. He contemplated for a moment the stars shining above his head before Disapparating.


	4. Nocturnal Stroll

**Chapter Four: Nocturnal Stroll**

The night was clear and warm; the white marble of the graves reflected the moonlight and gleamed sinisterly all around Harry, as he walked across the small graveyard of Godric's Hollow. He swiftly made his way to a tomb in a distant corner, sheltered by a large beech tree.

The tomb was a simple rectangular slab lying on the ground; it was made of marble that used to be white, and upon it was carved the names_James Potter_ and _Lily Potter, née Evans._ The marble was dirty and covered in damp spots and marks left by leaves that had rotted on the once smooth surface; ivy crept all around the slab, threatening to cover the names with its thick dark-green foliage. James and Lily Potter's tomb looked lonely and abandoned.

Harry silently sat on the ground, next to his parents' grave. As always he pulled off the ivy that had slyly advanced on the cold and hard stone since his last visit. He didn't know why he kept coming here – contrary to Hogwarts, this place wasn't helping him to feel better, far from it. He never felt so isolated and different from the living than when he went to visit that small godforsaken graveyard. But could he really consider himself as alive? He hardly felt like he was part of the world…

In the few months following Voldemort's fall, he had often found himself longing for death. He had craved peace, and he had had to use all his willpower to not let himself die – he was still needed to rebuild the wizarding world, after all. But the main reason why he had stayed alive was that a part of him clung desperately to life, no matter how bitter and miserable it had become. Having survived through all that, only to die at the end – it would have been so stupid, so pointless.

Harry felt suddenly oppressed by the deadly silence. Incapable of staying still any longer, he heaved himself off the ground and got to his feet. Leaving his parents' grave he strolled across the cemetery, distractedly reading the names carved in the hard stone of the tombs; it was strange to see those names, strange to think those long-forgotten people, who now lay reduced to ash and dust in the infertile earth, used to live and walk and – maybe – love… Until all that was left of them was a name carved in marble.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry almost bumped into the beech tree he had left behind him a few moments before. He had just walked round the graveyard; now he had nothing more to do here, except a last visit to two other friends.

Crouching on the ground on one side of the Potters' grave, he brushed away the ivy that seemed to be the only plant able to grow on this grayish earth, to reveal another slab – much more recent than the one covering his parents' tomb, but also considerably smaller. It was only a square of white marble, bearing the name _Sirius Black._ Sirius' body had never been found, but Remus Lupin had been insistent about putting a small slab bearing his name, next to the place where his best friend lay.

Harry stayed silent for a few seconds, gazing at the marble slab; he extended a hand and ran his thumb across the letters forming Sirius' name, remembering how Sirius had managed to survive – to go through countless hardships, only to die at the hand of a Death Eater while trying to save _him_. Had he been given the choice, Sirius would have chosen to live; even after twelve years spent in Azkaban he had still possessed that power Harry had lost – he had always seen the good sides to his life, he had never considered abandoning it; even when it had been frustrating and boring. And yet he hadn't hesitated for a second to give it to save Harry.

Harry wondered if he would be able to do the same. A few years ago, he would have been. Now he wasn't so sure.

Abruptly rising once more, he walked around the beech tree and brushed aside the heavy curtain of ivy greedily feeding on the sap of the tree. There, carved in the wood by his hand two years ago, was another name: the name of Peter Pettigrew.

The fourth Marauder had redeemed himself as a spy in the war, giving Harry the information which allowed him to complete his mission; he had not turned to Harry's side out of bravery – though he had needed it when stealing information from Voldemort –, but because he was actually more terrified by James Potter's shadow than by his Master himself.

Harry had heard Peter several times, when he was hiding under his Invisibility Cloak to enter a Death Eaters' base in order to gather more information about Voldemort's shattered soul. More than once, Harry had silently sat in a corner of Peter's miserable bedroom in the shabby house of Spinner's End, listening to the short man's frantic muttering.

"_It wasn't my fault Prongs… I never realised… I cried, if you knew how much I cried that night… If I had died for you, what use it would have been? I thought I could be more helpful by staying alive… I wanted to prove myself to you, you and Padfoot… You were both thinking I was dumb and incapable… I wanted to show you I could be a useful spy for the Order... but in the end you were right of course. I couldn't stop giving information to _him._ What Snivellus achieved, I wasn't able to do. _

"_Prongs, the night you made me Secret Keeper was the worst night of my entire life! I didn't care about Padfoot, he thought I was useless and he only bore with me because of you. He could die for all I cared, he could be sent to Azkaban for his arrogance, his scorn and his way of acting as if the world revolved around him! But not you, Prongs! You and Lily… you were my only family…_

"_But of course you had each other… I was lonely Prongs. How was I supposed to handle the Dark Lord on my own? You were too busy with your newfound family to care about your dumb, short and fat friend… I couldn't resist. How I cried the night you died, Prongs! I was there, as a rat. Under Lily's favourite armchair, which was so old she was sinking in it because there were no springs left; remember Prongs? I saw you fall to the ground, dead, and I fled…_

"_I thought no one was going to believe my little act about Sirius. I thought they would all think he was incapable of betraying his best friend. There would be a trial and he would tell everything about me, me the traitor… Oh he loved you too, I knew it, and I was sad because I could never have with anybody – and especially not with you – a bond such as the one the pair of you shared… He was like your brother and I was just the stupid little lump of a boy, trotting behind you, wasn't I Prongs? They all knew this. They all knew he would have died rather than hand you over to the Dark Lord…Why did they all believe he had betrayed you? _

"_Why did Moony, wise, brave and faithful Moony, believe it? Why didn't they all think, afterwards, that Moony was a coward too because he had never paused to consider the events of that night? He believed at once Sirius was the traitor, when he knew better than anybody how much you meant to him. But whatever happened, Moony still was the good, faithful friend, wasn't he Prongs? When Padfoot broke free, he forgave Moony. Why do I always have to be the only culprit, Prongs?..._

"_I'm so sorry, so, so sorry Prongs…"_

Harry had used Peter's burning remorse. He had soon taken the risk to show himself to the small, rat-like man, though always staying in the shadows so that Peter would not be able to make out the details of his face. He had called out his name in that joyful, slightly drawling voice his father used to use with his friends when he was his age. He had talked about insignificant things – Quidditch, Lily Evans and taunting Snape.

Either his imitation of James Potter was flawless, or loneliness and remorse had already driven Peter to insanity; probably both worked towards the result of Harry's imprudent act: soon Peter was addressing Harry as James or Prongs, believing him to be the apparition of his long lost friend. At times Peter would talk to him as if they were back at Hogwarts; at other times he would sob quietly, stammering his apology for what he had done. Harry had soon found his hatred for Peter dissolving, to be replaced by a deep pity for the sad wreck he had become.

Step by step, taking his time, Harry had convinced Peter that helping to defeat Voldemort was the only way to release him from the remorse that had been slowly eating him for years. Peter had tried his hardest to retrieve the information Harry needed; and surprisingly enough, he had succeeded beyond Harry's hopes. Peter was thought to be a weak and cowardly man, and therefore he was never suspected. Harry knew Peter had realised who he really was; the last time Harry had seen him, Peter had handed him the last bit of information he had found, before whispering:

"They're suspecting something this time; I don't think I'll see you again… Good luck, Harry."

Peter had killed himself the following day, before Voldemort had had a chance to make him pay for betraying the Dark Mark.

Harry had never found his body; doubtless it had been cruelly maimed by the Death Eaters. But he had carved Peter's name in the bark of the beech tree towering above his parents' grave, feeling that, after all these years, Peter had finally deserved to rest there.

Harry ran a hand on the bark of the tree, smoothing the old inscription. Then with a sigh he turned away and Disapparated.

He Apparated at Hogsmeade, out of habit; the ruined village had been one of his favourite thinking spot over the past years. As he wandered in the deserted streets, he was struck by the unusual lack of movement and noise. It was very late, of course, but the silence that lay over the empty streets wasn't peaceful or drowsy; it was tense and fearful.

Harry paused, frowning. Never before had he sensed such terror filling the atmosphere of Hogsmeade. Gathering his Invisibility Cloak around him, he hurried out of the village and towards the gates of Hogwarts. There was a danger lurking at Hogsmeade, and he had to make sure Professor McGonagall knew about it. Hogsmeade and Hogwarts had suffered enough from the war.

He reached the gates to find them closed. He blinked one or twice, before cursing under his breath at his own stupidity. His truly stupendous ability to forget so easily and repeatedly that the gates were closed and protected by the most complicated spells at night, especially when one of his best friends knew by heart _Hogwarts: a History _and never missed an opportunity to quote whole paragraphs from it, would stay a mystery to him.

Fortunately he knew the weak point of the gates – he had used it to come in and out of the grounds in his seventh year. The passageway was very difficult to spot and almost impassable; Harry doubted even Remus Lupin knew about it. Nevertheless using it would be quicker than sending a Patronus to McGonagall – admitting she was even there, awake and ready to answer him immediately, which was highly unlikely at three in the morning.

As he started to walk round the gates, in the shade of the big trees of the woods lining Hogwarts grounds, he felt suddenly that he was being watched. He wheeled around, holding his wand at the ready, and peered into the darkness surrounding him.

Nothing moved at first under the thick trees. Then Harry's eyes, blessed with a capability for unusually good night vision, distinguished the shape of an animal – four legs and two shining yellow eyes, eyeing him. A split-second later he heard a twig creaking under a paw on his left, followed by a low growl. He soon realised he was surrounded by a whole pack of those animals, whatever they were. As much as he could tell from their dark shapes, barely visible between the trunks, they looked a lot like dogs.

Or wolves.

His heart skipped a beat; he raised his head to look at the moon, which was shining dully in the black sky and casting its silvery light in patches at Harry's feet. It was full.

Werewolves.

Harry's grip on his wand tightened. He pointed it straight at the first werewolf he had seen; this one was bigger than the others and looked like some sort of leader. When werewolves gathered in packs – which seldom happened, they were quite a lonely kind – there was always a leader; a leader to find a prey and give the signal for the attack.

The werewolf slowly stepped out of the shade of the trees and into a patch of moonlight; a threatening growl was rumbling in its throat and its yellow eyes were warily fixed on Harry's hand. It looked old – whole tufts of brownish hair had been pulled out and its back and paws were bearing innumerable scars. Its chops were curled over its sharp yellowing fangs, and it was almost panting with greed as it surveyed Harry, its blood-red tongue slipping in and out of sight between its long and pointed canines.

If Hell had had a wolfish face that would have been it.

The werewolf hadn't attacked yet, though the hungry growls of the pack were urging it to jump at Harry's throat. It was slowly turning around Harry, without taking its eyes off the wand still held firmly in his right hand.

Harry had no idea how on earth he was going to get away this time. Though he wasn't in Hogwarts itself technically speaking, he was just beside the gates and it was impossible for him to Apparate or Disapparate. It was he who had suggested extending the protective spells to a wide strip of land around the gates outside the school grounds, as an extra precaution in case Hogwarts was to suffer more assaults from desperate Death Eaters. Thus they would be forced to Apparate further from the school and would be sooner detected.

Now thanks to that smart decision he was trapped in a wood just outside Hogwarts, surrounded by at least thirty starving werewolves.

He knew that as soon as he would use his wand, the whole pack would rush to him in fury. However if he didn't use it, he could as well sit on the ground and apologize for not having tomato sauce so that the werewolves could enjoy more their dinner…

But did werewolves like tomato sauce?

Harry violently shook his head._ It's in crucial moments like this that I always have those stupid, stupid thoughts._

The werewolf's growl rose to a bark as it was startled by Harry's abrupt jerk of the head. The herd of werewolves growled in response and moved closer; some of the beasts started to slowly turn around Harry as well, panting with hunger and excitement.

Then Harry did the only thing he could do. Raising his wand above his head, he shouted:

"_Fulmen intona!"_

There was a deafening bang that echoed on the distant mountains, as a flash of harsh white light erupted from the tip of his wand, blinding the werewolves. A herd of normal wolves would have fled in front of the light alone, but the werewolves were so hungry Harry only succeeded in badly startling them. The most timorous gave a yelp and jumped backward, howling madly, and dashed away in the darkness as the oldest roared with fury. The leader huddled up, ready to jump at Harry's throat.

But Harry was already running.

His spell had disorganised the pack of werewolves, which had been pitilessly drawing closer and closer so as to not leave a single gap he could have used to escape; seizing his opportunity, he ran among the panic-stricken and blinded werewolves and succeeded in stepping out of the deadly circle they had formed all around him.

And now he was running, as hard as he could, toward a spot where he would be able to Disapparate.

He was a fast runner. He had already proved it.

Only this time he was not hunted down by four Death Eaters, but by a herd of howling, furious and bloodthirsty werewolves. The remains of the pack had already recovered from the shock and were now chasing him; the fastest had already caught up, but instead of trying to stop him they were running on his left side, preventing him from getting away from the gates. He couldn't escape them. He was forced to follow the gates all around Hogwarts, until he fell to the ground from exhaustion…

But he was difficult to exhaust. Gritting his teeth, he aimed at random a Stunner over his shoulder; a yelp told him he had hit one of the animals, but unfortunately a werewolf couldn't be stopped by a simple Stunner. The spell would only dazzle it for a few moments; it was part of a werewolf's nature to be able to resist simple curses.

Yet Harry had no choice. Every time he thought of a stronger and often Darker spell, more likely to stop the howling herd, he thought of Lupin. Those people were under the terrible influence of the moonlight; they didn't have a clue what they were doing – with the exception of Fenrir Greyback, who was still at large. Maybe Harry would have considered harming them or even wounding them mortally, if he hadn't known Lupin.

So he went on sending Stunners and Full Body-Binding curses, and the sound of a body falling to the ground came more and more often to his ears. Now there were but two or three werewolves blocking his way to a place where he could Disapparate. The others, infuriated even more by the jinxes they had received, were a little further behind him.

If all he could do was slow them down, it was still better than running until they caught up, hurled him to the ground and –

There was suddenly a terrible roar and a heavy mass crashed on Harry's shoulders, knocking the wind out of him and sending him rolling on the ground.

He didn't take the time to consider his situation and found himself on his feet within two seconds, facing the werewolf leader, which had, by the look of it, just jumped on his shoulders.

The werewolf didn't waste a second either; Harry had just straightened up, hastily pushing back in place the glasses that were dangerously slipping down his nose, when it jumped again – but now it was aiming for the throat.

Harry had to throw himself to the ground again to avoid the werewolf, who was quite unfazed by his dodging the attack and turned again to him. This time it was on top of Harry before he could get up.

The frightful jaws clapped loudly, inches from his throat. Harry shot a Scorching Spell that narrowly missed the werewolf's head – Harry could smell the acrid scent of burning hair. He heard a ripping sound and felt a thick liquid trickle down his sides, and realised the werewolf was clawing at his torso and stomach, tearing his robes and his shirt in the process.

The werewolf kept snapping its jaws just in front of Harry's face, growling in frustration every time it missed: Harry's left hand clutched the thick fur just under the beast's throat and prevented it from coming close enough to actually sink its fangs in Harry's flesh. Yet the animal was so close Harry couldn't even hex him.

The man and the beast wrestled on the ground, growling and grunting in effort. The pack of werewolves – those that hadn't been scared away by the spells Harry had used – had reformed around them; about twenty pairs of yellow eyes were avidly staring at the struggling pair. The fur of the werewolf and the skin and clothes of the man soon were coated in the same thick mixture of dirt, sweat and blood. As the fight lasted, twenty snouts rose to the moon, which was serenely casting its cold light over the scene, and a long complaint flooded out of twenty throats.

Harry couldn't believe what he was living was real. He was locked in a hand-to-hand, deadly fight with one of the most dangerous creature known in the wizarding world; a fight he could only lose, given that even if he did defeat the werewolf leader, he was still surrounded by twenty other bloodthirsty beasts. And his ears were filled with the sad, desperate and angry cry echoing on the distant mountains. It was just surreal.

The werewolf with whom Harry was wrestling chose that moment to dive again, with a furious bark, for Harry's throat. Harry clumsily held his wand very close to his face, trying to point it just between the beast's yellow eyes – but he didn't need to say a spell. As the werewolf plunged towards him the tip of the wand drove into the left eye – deeply.

A terrible howl of pain rang in the valley, cutting in the werewolves' mournful cry. The leader threw its head backward, snatching the wand out of Harry's hand. As the beast yelped in pain and tried to get rid of the wand jabbed in its eye by rubbing its head with its paw – only driving the wand deeper in the eye –, Harry scrambled to his feet, shaking from head to foot. The werewolves had not started closing all around him again, probably flabbergasted by the outcome of the fight.

He had a choice between running now, hoping they would be destabilized by their leader's defeat – which meant leaving his wand where it was; or he could go and retrieve his wand, praying that the other werewolves didn't attack him in the meantime, and that he didn't get bitten by the leader while he tried to pull a thick bit of wood out of its bleeding eye.

As much as Harry hated leaving his wand behind him, he had no choice. Turning on his heels, he ran away.

The werewolves seemed to take no notice of his departure and he ran harder and harder towards the edge of the zone protected by the anti-Apparition Spell. He still had a mere few feet to go when a dark shape shot up from his right and blocked his way. Harry let out a scream of frustration as he ducked; he was so close to his goal and another werewolf had to appear and attack him…

Harry tried to gather speed but found out, to his horror that his legs refused to go any faster. Maybe the gashes that the leader's claws had dug into his flesh were deeper than he thought – he couldn't tell, he didn't feel the pain – anyway he seemed to have lost too much blood. His clothes were soaked with the thick liquid; the scent of it surrounded him and drowned his mind.

Noticing his weakness, the werewolf quietly walked ahead of him and blocked his way again. Harry tried to go round it, but the beast wasn't easily fooled. It was obviously starving; Harry could almost make out the ribs under the sparse and dirty fur. Still, the werewolf was still stronger and fitter than he was now…

Harry and the skinny animal stayed still for a few minutes, eyeing each other. The werewolf leader's yelps of pain could still be heard, somewhere in the wood behind Harry, along with the angry howls of others. Some of them were still baying at the moon. Harry found it hard to concentrate on the task at hand while so many noises pounded in his ears and rang in his skull, and as the sickly scent of blood filled his nostrils.

He wasn't quick enough when the werewolf leaped. His legs felt like lead and refused to move. The werewolf landed straight on his chest, knocking him down, and for a second he felt on his neck the hot and fetid breath of the beast. With a huge effort he straightened in a sitting position, forcefully pushing the werewolf off his chest with both hands. The werewolf yielded at first – before attacking again at full speed.

Harry grabbed the fur of the werewolf and tried to pull it off of him with a cry of effort. But the werewolf wouldn't budge – it had an incredibly strong grip on Harry. Actually Harry felt like his right shoulder was taken in a vice.

Panting with the effort, he twisted his neck to look down at his right shoulder. The werewolf had sunk its fangs into the flesh and was gripping it so tightly Harry could hear the bones creaking and breaking one by one under the pressure of the lethal jaws.

Harry desperately tried to force the animal to let go. A fresh flood of blood poured from his shoulder, soaking again his already deeply cut torso. Harry was losing the feeling in his right hand and suddenly feared the werewolf would tear off his arm. This thought renewed his failing strengths and in a violent effort that surprised even himself, he rose to his feet, the werewolf still dangling from his shoulder and sinking its claws in his torso so as not to slide to the ground.

Harry staggered to a nearby tree and slammed his shoulder into the trunk with all his might; the werewolf took most of the blow and let go of him with a yelp. As soon as it had rolled away from him, Harry let himself fall to the ground again. His right arm hung limply at his side and blood was still flooding from the wound. Little stars popped in front of his eyes.

Yet the werewolf didn't seem to be through with him; it stood up with a snarl, shaking its head experimentally as if trying to get rid of the slight dizziness its fall had probably caused, and advanced towards Harry. Harry watched with a kind of fascination the muscles rolling under the dirty fur at every step the animal took. As he defiantly held the beast's gaze, who had now stopped and seemed to be readying itself to another attack, his left hand clenched upon a heavy, sharp-ridged stone that lay between the roots of the tree he was leaning against.

It happened, once again, very fast. The werewolf leaped – the stone flew out of Harry's hand – and a howl of pain tore the still air of the night as the werewolf fell again, stopped brutally in mid-jump. It staggered between the trunks, blindly rubbing its head with one of its front paws. The stone had hit its skull, digging a deep gash from which blood poured into the eyes.

Harry scrambled to his feet once more, feeling now an immense weakness spreading to the very ends of his limbs and weighing them down. He knew he wouldn't be able to Apparate in his current state; yet he had to get closer to the inhabited areas of the valley, otherwise he would be emptied of his blood before someone thought of strolling in those dark, hostile woods, if the werewolves didn't finish him off first, of course.

Just as he stumbled a few steps closer to the edge of the wood, he heard a whimper of pain behind him. The werewolf leader had staggered in the small clearing where he had fought the second werewolf, the wand finally out of its eye – which was now no more than a blind, bleeding hole – but still sticking to the fur matted with blood and dirt. The wand emitted sparks every time the werewolf tried to make it fall off of its head, causing it to jump in fright.

A growl on his left made Harry laboriously turn around to face the second werewolf. He was getting tired of fighting and he wanted it to end; yet the skinny werewolf he had hit with his stone didn't seem to think along the same lines, and once more Harry saw him ready to strike.

A surge of fury, astonishingly violent as well as unexpected, suddenly took over him; holding out his left hand in the direction of the one-eyed leader which was still piteously whimpering between the trees, he reflexively screamed:

"_Accio wand!"_

His voice sounded hoarse, strained and hateful; it rang in his ears like a stranger's. He was taken aback to see the wand obey at once the harsh order and fly right in his outstretched hand; at the same minute the werewolf attacked, and Harry raised his wand.

"_Atram noctem time!" _

The old, menacing words echoed in the woods as if they had been yelled; yet Harry's voice had been barely louder than a whisper. From his wand pointed firmly at the werewolf's head, a shadow erupted. Thin wisps of black smoke lazily encircled the werewolf like thin bounds. The beast gave a strangled yelp and tried to escape the deadly ribbons, idly enlacing its skinny body and barely caressing the dirty fur in an almost tender move.

Soon the werewolf's gestures became jerkier and more frantic, but suddenly it looked like a great weight had dropped on its shoulders. It fell on its side on the ground, still bound by the billowing curls of black smoke, and its eyes fell shut. It began to wail softly, and soon it was thrashing on the ground without ever opening its eyes, as if it was having nightmares – nightmares it couldn't escape.

Harry's hand fell back to his side. Without sparing another glance to the two defeated and wounded werewolves, he managed to stand up once more and walked away.

It was becoming more and more difficult to walk. His feet were glued to the ground, and he was reduced to drag them pathetically as he stubbornly went on towards Hogsmeade. The mountains, the woods and the village were spinning before his eyes and his ears were filled with a high-pitched hissing. He heard a dull thud in the distance; a few seconds later he realised it was the sound his knees had made when they had collided with the ground.

Harry dragged himself on his hands and knees for a few feet before collapsing completely on the warm grass-covered earth. It felt comfortable. The scent of grass was now mixing with the sickening smell of blood and sweat. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky. Everything was dark and blurred. Lifting with a great effort a shaking hand to wipe some of the blood off his eyes, he realised he no longer wore his glasses. He must have had lost them during the fight…

The sky had gone pale pink in the east now, and the stars began to fade. A bird timidly shot one or two trills, as if testing the acoustics, before starting to sing joyfully in the semi-darkness.

Harry smiled as he heard the bird. He didn't know if he was going to be found and cured – not that he cared anymore about that. He felt peaceful and drowsy, and all he wanted now was to sleep. He had two sleepless years to catch up with.

Just before he slid into unconsciousness, he turned his head slightly to the right and considered the bloodied shoulder the werewolf had bitten. He slowly raised his gaze to the sky once more; the full moon was low on the horizon.

That's when it hit him.

"I'm a werewolf," he whispered in amazement.

His eyes widened to their fullest extent as they stared unseeingly at the paling sky. Then he let out a burst of laughter, unfeeling the protest of his broken ribs.

"Great," he laughed, "To cap it all, I'm a werewolf."

His laughter was ringing strangely at his own ears; it sounded very unlike his own and oddly faraway. He was suddenly shaken by a violent coughing fit that left him drained out and panting for air. The world was spinning faster and faster above him; finally everything went black and he knew no more.

**

* * *

****A/N: My knowledge of Latin used to be quite decent. But that was before the baccalauréat (i.e, end of highschool). I can just hope what's left of my knowledge in the subject isn't offending the Latin-lovers who may have read my pitiful attempts at inventing curses.**


	5. The Curse and the Werewolf

**Chapter Five: The Curse and the Werewolf**

"Where did you find him, Miss Vane?" whispered a gentle voice.

"In-in a f-field near the forest around the g-gates," sobbed another voice in answer, a girl's. "He was unconscious in a p-pool of blood, and his wand was at a f-few feet from him, and I did-didn't find his glasses and he was bleeding and –"

"That's all right Miss Vane," said the first voice firmly. "It's not the first time Harry finds himself in the Hospital Wing, after all –"

"That must be the biggest understatement I've ever heard," a third voice cut in, clearly exasperated. "This boy is always involved in something dangerous! I've already had dark spells, incompetent teachers, Quidditch, Dementors, dragons, giant spiders, Blast-Ended Skrewts, Death Eaters, more Quidditch and more dark spells, and now this! How can the same person attract so much trouble?"

"Don't be so loud Poppy, you're going to wake him up."

"In the state he's in? HA! He'll be lucky if he ever wakes up!"

The voices were the first thing Harry's comatose brain registered. He heard them intermittently, clear then muffled then clear again, as if they were coming from an old radio. His limbs were as heavy as lead and there was an acrid taste in his mouth. He felt as if he was buried under tons of cotton.

Harry kept his eyelids shut, trying desperately not to wake up. But it seemed that even without the nurse's furious whispering he wouldn't be able to drift off to sleep. He finally gave up and wearily opened his eyes.

The Hospital Wing of Hogwarts appeared in a blur. Harry automatically reached for the bedside table where he usually put his glasses, but his right arm refused to move correctly and collided with the table; a bottle that had been put on the wooden surface, dangerously close to the edge of the table, swayed and fell to the floor. The resulting crash made the other occupants of the Hospital Wing squeak in fright, and a moment later Harry vaguely distinguished Madam Pomfrey's blurred shape rushing to his side.

"Sweet Merlin, he's awake! Can you hear me, Potter?"

Harry tried to answer "Obviously," but it came out as an inaudible mumble. His mouth was thick and dry and he had trouble moving his tongue.

"Oh, God… Miss Vane, help me to put him back in his bed, he's about to fall from it…"

Madam Pomfrey's arm slid around his waist as two other hands seized his left arm and pulled him back in the middle of the bed. Madam Pomfrey grabbed the pillows and arranged them while the person called Miss Vane was supporting Harry in a sitting position.

"Here – he can lie down now," came Madam Pomfrey's brisk voice.

Miss Vane gently pushed Harry back on his pillows.

"Is there something you want, Harry?" she asked in a still tearful voice.

Harry nodded and was able to grunt "water" more or less distinctly. He heard Miss Vane whispering "Aguamenti" somewhere on his left and a second later a glass of water was pushed against his lips.

His eyes widened slightly in shock and he felt a twinge of annoyance at the fact she obviously thought he couldn't drink on his own, but then maybe she was right: he would be likely to spill everything down his front. Harry swallowed his pride and grudgingly accepted her help.

Once he had gulped down some water, his throat wasn't so dry anymore and his tongue seemed functional again. He tentatively cleared his throat.

"How are you feeling now?" said the girl who had helped him to drink.

"Better, thanks," he answered in a slightly hoarse voice. "You're the one who found me, aren't you?"

"Yes – I had gone out early and I found you lying in a grass and covered in blood. I Levitated you to a friend's house and as soon as I could I sent a word to Professor McGonagall. My friend went back to the wood where I found you, to see if there was someone else… he's not back yet."

Harry nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. He remembered now… the werewolf leader, his wand in its eye… the skinny werewolf, biting his shoulder… the curse he had cast… his fall in the grass, and his realisation… he was a werewolf…

"Do – do you remember me, Harry?"

Harry's eyes snapped open once more. The girl sounded both hopeful and nervous. He turned his head to have a better look at her and squinted. He could distinguish long black hair and blue robes, but that was it.

"Well, considering I'm not wearing my glasses…" he said slowly.

"Oh, yes, I'm so stupid," said the girl very quickly, her voice slightly more high-pitched than before. "I'm Romilda Vane. Er… does it ring a bell?"

Harry frowned. "Do you have anything to do with Chocolate Cauldrons spiked with love potion, in sixth year?"

She giggled, sounding a bit embarrassed.

"Here we go… I was afraid that would be the only thing you'd remember about me. Ah well, it's entirely my fault, I guess – ah Harry, this is the friend I've been telling you about, Bernard Olibrius."

Another blurred shape had entered the Hospital Wing, breathing heavily.

"Merlin," said an old, wheezy voice. "I'm too old for this kind of things. Professor McGonagall, I found someone else. A man, unconscious; in a pretty bad shape too. Hagrid was with me; he carried him to his hut. Said there was no time to bring him up there. He'd like to see you, by the way."

"Thank you, Mr. Olibrius," said McGonagall's crisp voice. "I'll be going in a minute."

Professor McGonagall's tall and dark shape approached Harry's bed.

"Can you hear me, Potter?"

"Of course, I'm bitten and scratched but I'm not deaf," Harry answered wearily.

Romilda started giggling but stopped dead almost immediately. Harry suppressed a smirk; he had almost sensed McGonagall's glare.

"Apparently you weren't the only one who was wounded last night," she went on in a disapproving voice. "As the other victim's injuries seem even worse than yours, Madam Pomfrey and I are going down to Hagrid's hut to see whether we should arrange his departure to St Mungo's or if he can be cured here. I can see you don't look too bad; however, if you need anything, you can ask Miss Vane. She offered to take care of you."

Harry nodded in agreement and Professor McGonagall left the Hospital Wing, followed somehow reluctantly by Madam Pomfrey ("Are you sure you don't need me for the moment, Potter?").

Harry sank back in his pillows. A great fatigue was lying heavy on his whole body, pinning him down to the mattress. The window next to his bed was open and he could clearly hear the merry singing of the birds in the Forbidden Forest. The sunbeams cast long rectangular patches of golden light on the floor, meaning the sun had risen only hours before. It was probable he had stayed unconscious for a very small amount of time given the severity of his wounds.

Someone coughed discreetly, pulling Harry out of his musings. He realised Romilda and Olibrius showed no intention to leave him in peace; actually they had sat on straight-backed chairs next to his bed. He inwardly groaned. The last thing he wanted was a conversation with Romilda and Olibrius; he'd rather have all the time to think about the recent – and considerable – complication in his medical situation. Healer Parletoo would have a fit when he learned about him getting bitten by a werewolf…

"Here are your glasses," said the old man eagerly, pushing a hard and cold object in Harry's hand. "I took the liberty to use a mending charm on them… they were broken…"

Harry mumbled a word of thanks and clumsily put on his glasses with his left hand. The Hospital Wing finally came into focus, as well as Romilda and Olibrius' beaming faces. The old wizard was holding something else that looked like a dirty and ragged piece of cloth. Noticing Harry's gaze, he awkwardly held it up.

"Hum… I found this in the wood, too… Thought it may belong to you… It was already in this state when I picked it up. It's a kind of cloak, I think…"

Harry suddenly recognized, with a jolt of horror, the silvery material in which was made the torn cloak Olibrius had found.

"Oh no," he groaned, seizing with his good hand the sad remains of his Invisibility Cloak and spreading them on the bed.

The Cloak was in a terrible state. It was stained with mud and dust, and even blood; worse still, it was in tatters. A great rip ran along the whole length of it, dividing it almost completely in two, and the hems were frayed. Scraps of silvery cloth were sadly hanging from the bed and trailing on the floor. Harry doubted he would ever be able to wear it again.

Romilda and Olibrius were shifting uneasily in their chairs, shooting anxious glances at Harry's face. He assumed his expression was close to devastation, but then he could hardly blame himself for feeling so sorry for losing his Cloak. The reason why he was so depressed wasn't even that Invisibility Cloaks were very rare and precious; now he had lost it, he realised how much his Cloak meant to him.

This Cloak had been a faithful companion in almost all his escapades around the school, and even later when he wandered at night to occupy his sleepless nights. It had known the silent search for Nicolas Flamel, the furtive sneaking to Hogsmeade and the dangerous incursions into the Death Eaters' bases.

This Cloak had known the Marauders' pranks and nights of full moon.

This Cloak had been the only thing he had inherited from his father.

Harry swallowed hard. Obviously there was nothing he could do about it for the time being; he carefully folded the dirty and ragged Cloak and put it away. Slumping back on his pillows, he started contemplating the ceiling, not wanting to give Romilda or Olibrius a reason to talk to him. After a few minutes of total silent, he heard Olibrius leaving quietly, followed by Romilda who just stayed the time to mumble she was in Madam Pomfrey's office if he needed anything.

Harry hardly heard her. He felt completely hollow.

An hour later, neither Professor McGonagall nor Madam Pomfrey had returned from Hagrid's hut. Tired of lying in bed and chewing over the same unsolvable problems, Harry decided to get up and join them at Hagrid's. He had to ask for Romilda's help to get dressed; his right arm wouldn't move and any brusque gesture threatened to make the gashes in his chest bleed again.

His robes and shirt being ruined beyond any hope of repairing, even by magic, Romilda went to fetch a Seventh Year's uniform. It was weird to wear again the plain black Hogwarts robes, adorned with the red and gold Gryffindor badge sewed on the chest. Harry disregarded the red and gold tie Romilda had brought with the uniform and walked with relief out of the Hospital Wing, his arm in a sling.

He had to talk to Professor McGonagall; she would be able to tell him where Remus Lupin was, and Remus Lupin was the only person he could take advice from in his current state. He felt slightly better when he thought he wouldn't have to be alone for his transformations. Remus wasn't so lucky when he had been bitten in the first place.

The sun was high in the sky as Harry walked down the stone steps leading to the smooth lawn around the castle. He was halfway to Hagrid's hut when he noticed someone sitting on the stone bench outside the hut. Someone with acid green hair.

Smiling to himself, he quickened his pace until he was at a few feet from the hut. The acid-green-haired woman hadn't lifted her head at his approach and seemed to be contemplating her shoes.

"I'm not sure green is your colour, Tonks," Harry called out with a grin.

She jumped in shock and her eyes widened at the sight of Harry in his Gryffindor uniform. Harry was startled to see her eyes were red and puffy and her face was pale with anxiety, but he hadn't the time to ask her anything; next second she had sprung to her feet, smiling from one ear to the other. They had become close friends since they were working in the same department at the Ministry.

"Wotcher Harry!" she said in her usual bright voice. "Since when are you a seventh year?"

"Since my clothes have been completely ruined by a bunch of creatures that wanted to taste what was under the clothes," said Harry as he hugged her briefly with his good arm.

"You seem quite whole for someone who has nearly been eaten," she noted, pulling him by the hand to make him sit on the bench next to her.

Harry showed her his bandaged arm and the gash that could be seen just below his neck, half-hidden by his open collar.

"They managed to get a little bit of me… but I must taste really foul, they gave up after that. How's Remus, by the way? I haven't seen him in a long time."

Tonks' smile slipped off her face and a worried glint came to her eyes.

"He's in there," she whispered, showing the hut with her thumb. "I've been called this morning by McGonagall – he's been found in the woods outside Hogwarts, unconscious."

Her voice broke on the last word.

"Last night was full moon," she went on with a slightly trembling voice. "And there was no Wolfsbane potion left… he had to go out and suffer the full transformation. God only knows what happened to him."

Harry went very still. His heartbeat increased suddenly and started pounding against his ribs, so loudly he was sure Tonks would hear it. Remus had been in the woods last night. He had been one of the werewolves that had gone after him. And he was injured.

Harry could only hope he had nothing to do with his friend's current state. After all, maybe Remus had been hurt in a fight with another werewolf; they were all driven mad by hunger…

"And… why aren't you allowed in there?" he asked in a strained voice. The words seemed to come out of his mouth reluctantly, as if they would have preferred to stay hidden in his head. And come to think of it, Harry wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Tonks took a shuddering breath and slid both hands in her green hair, pressing the heels of her hands into her temples as if to squash away an image lingering in her mind.

"He's – he's not doing well at all," she choked, tears filling her eyes. "I saw him when I first arrived… he's got several bruises and cuts, but the worst – the worst is he's under a sort of spell… and McGonagall can't undo it… She told me she would lift it if I left her alone with him, but I know she can't, she's been in there for far too long…"

An icy feeling of dread spread from Harry's heart to the tips of his limbs and rushed to his head, almost causing it to spin. A spell… Even as he tentatively put his left arm around Tonks' shaking shoulders, the words he had uttered last night echoed in his ears.

_Atram noctem time._

McGonagall wouldn't be able to undo it…

Harry abruptly rose, startling Tonks.

"Harry – where are you…?"

Harry merely shook his head as an answer and walked round her, decidedly heading for Hagrid's front door.

"Wait!"

"I'm not going to wait, Tonks. If there's something I can do –"

"I know. I'm coming with you."

Harry stopped and looked over at her uncertainly. Determination was etched in every feature of her pale, heart-shaped face.

"You think you can help him?" she asked, her voice steady.

"Well I –"

"Then let's go."

And without giving him any more time to weigh the pros and cons, she grabbed his hand and led the way up the worn stone steps and to Hagrid's gigantic front door.

Madam Pomfrey answered Tonks' forceful knock on the oak door. Her reproving expression turned to indignant astonishment when she saw Harry standing next to her.

"Potter!" she blurted out, as if she couldn't believe her own eyes. "What_are_ you doing –"?

"Sorry Poppy," said Tonks firmly, cutting across her. "An emergency."

And without further ado, she seized the nurse's arm and pulled her out of the hut, before dragging Harry inside and slamming the door in Madam Pomfrey's outraged face.

"Nice move," said Harry, impressed.

"At least all my Auror training won't have been a complete waste of time," Tonks answered with the ghost of a grin. "Poor dear," she added, a guilty look on her face. "She didn't deserve it but she would have submerged us with questions and reproaches…"

As they talked, they had moved closer to Hagrid's enormous bed in the furthest corner of the room. Professor McGonagall was bent over it, waving her wand in slow, fluid motions and chanting incantations. Flashes of lights erupted from the wand every few seconds, illuminating briefly the figure lying on the bed. Harry and Tonks stopped just behind her and watched silently as she worked. Harry found himself praying for a miracle.

Professor McGonagall suddenly straightened up with a sigh, sounding utterly discouraged – something Harry had never witnessed before. Unable to stand the uncertainty any longer, he abruptly spoke up.

"Professor McGonagall, how is –"

Professor McGonagall jumped at the sound of his voice and wheeled around, her wand at the ready, with extraordinarily quick reflexes for such a thin, old and respectable-looking witch.

"Potter!" she hissed furiously when she caught sight of him and Tonks, standing apprehensively behind her. "Did you swear to make me die of a heart-attack? What are you doing here? Where is Madam Pomfrey?"

"Please, professor," said Tonks. She sounded so much like a helpless little girl that both Harry and McGonagall stared, with expressions close to shock.

"Please," she repeated. "I need to know h-how he is."

Professor McGonagall sighed again. The fire lit in the huge chimney illuminated sporadically the lines carved into her careworn face and the few white hair escaping from her neat dark bun; and all of sudden she seemed very old and weary.

"Nymphadora," she said softly. "There is not much I can do for Remus. He has been hit by a very ancient spell, the Atra Nox spell…"

She went on talking, but Harry didn't hear the rest; his head had started to spin again. Remus had been the skinny werewolf he had fought the previous night. And now he was dying, because of him.

Harry made up his mind in two seconds; he roughly shoved Professor McGonagall out of his way and closed in two steps the gap separating him from the bed where Remus was lying, unhearing McGonagall's furious protest and Tonks' astounded exclamation. His stomach gave a lurch at the sight of the man spread on the white sheets. Remus' face had been cleaned from the dirt and mud soiling it, but an ugly gash was running diagonally on his forehead from the edge of his greying hair to his right eyebrow: a wound without doubt caused by the stone Harry had thrown at his head the previous night…

Remus looked as if he was plunged in a very deep sleep; he was still moaning softly, his head thrashing from side to side and his bloodied forehead covered in sweat as he desperately tried to fight off the nightmares haunting him. His gestures weren't as vigorous and violent as last night; quite the contrary, they looked feeble, almost half-hearted. He was giving up. Another half an hour and he would be dead. Already his skin was deadly pale, nearly grey.

Harry fumbled for a minute with his chest pocket, handicapped by the obligation of using his left hand. He finally got his wand out of it and directed it to Remus' head.

He thought he heard professor McGonagall say something, but he paid no attention. He was trying very hard to concentrate now… that wouldn't be easy… Casting a dark spell to a werewolf in a surge of fury and hatred, during a deadly fight, was one thing; lifting the same spell when he was weakened and wounded and knew he was pointing the wand at one of his closest friends, was another.

"Harry, you can't lift the spell, it's impossible. That spell can be lifted only by –"

"SHUT UP!" roared Harry. His wand was trembling in his left hand. He could do it. He had to. Even if he had to face Remus' and Tonks' questions afterwards… He closed his eyes, concentrating on the man lying in front of him. There was nothing else in the world, just him, the wand, and Remus.

"_Finite Atra Nox"_, he whispered, and as they had done the previous night the words echoed all around the room in sinister murmurs.

Harry opened his eyes. His wand was still pointed at Remus, but nothing had happened. Beads of cold sweat slowly rolled down his forehead, but he didn't pause to wipe them off. He concentrated harder than ever, refusing to believe that he could fail – that Remus could die because of him. He was putting all his strengths in the counter-curse; his effort was so intense his wand started to vibrate, but Remus was still unconscious.

"Potter, I have repeated those words five times already," came McGonagall's weary voice. "They are no use if they aren't spoken by –"

"Professor, look!" squealed Tonks suddenly.

Remus had started to smoke; thin wisps of vapour were now rising from his whole body, lazily twirling in the air, and heading with a sort of nonchalance for Harry's trembling wand. The first ribbon of white smoke reached the tip of his wand and seemed to hesitate for a second before making contact. Harry let out a gasp. The wand was being forcefully pulled out of his hand, and he had to grip it twice as hard so as not to have it snatched away from him.

All the curls of white smoke were now entwining, forming a thick ribbon twirling and revolving in a spiral, sucked back from Remus' body and into Harry's wand. Harry smelled burning flesh: his wand was overheating and burning his palm. Had he been able to feel the pain, he would have dropped it.

The spiral of smoke stretching between Remus and his wand was spinning faster and faster and the pressure was becoming unbearable. The vibrating was now spreading to Harry's whole body, and he dimly felt McGonagall's long-fingered hand firmly clenching around his upper arm to help him to hold the wand steady.

Just as he was thinking he would only be able to hold on for one more minute, it all stopped. There was a loud bang and the pressure was lifted so abruptly Harry was thrown backward, colliding right into Tonks and Professor McGonagall. All three of them crashed in a confused heap on the floor.

There were a few moments of total chaos; every effort from Tonks to disentangle herself from the other two only worsened the mess, Professor McGonagall had her arm trapped under Harry's body, and unfortunately Harry was feeling so drained out by the effort he had just put in the counter-curse that he didn't move at all. Had he been given the choice, he would have been more than happy to lie down on the hard floor for a week or two. He could also feel a terrible migraine coming.

Finally, Professor McGonagall shouted: "The pair of you – OUT OF MY WAY!"

Tonks went stock-still and Harry rolled onto his side with a groan, releasing McGonagall's arm. She got to her feet, staggering slightly, and without so much as a glance towards Tonks and Harry she rushed to Remus' side. Tonks eventually scrambled to her feet, though not without accidentally hitting Harry in the face with her elbow.

Harry took his time before getting up. He laboriously straightened up in a sitting position, rubbing his temple where a dull ache was developing, and hauled himself up by gripping the foot of the nearby table. His left hand was stiff from the prolonged contact with the burning wand and his right arm was as insensitive as before. He still managed to stand up straight and slowly joined McGonagall and Tonks at Remus' bedside.

Tonks was excitedly whispering as she wiped Remus' forehead, still covered in sweat and blood, with a wet cloth.

"He – he looks just fine now, Professor! Look, he's just asleep! He's safe now!"

"I know, Nymphadora, I know," said McGonagall in a slightly harassed voice. "The counter-curse worked correctly. Now he needs Madam Pomfrey's help. Where is she, by the way?"

"I'll get her," Harry offered quickly, hoping to have an excuse to leave before he had to confront Remus.

Professor McGonagall shot him a piercing look. "No, Potter – Nymphadora will get her. I have to talk to you. No, Nymphadora," she added, her voice rising. "Don't ask him any questions. Save them for later. Go now, please."

Tonks, who had opened her mouth with a determined look on her face, closed it again and nodded in agreement. She quickly passed by Harry without looking at him, opened the front door and walked out. As soon as she was out of earshot, McGonagall beckoned to Harry, who reluctantly took a few steps closer to the large bed where Remus lay.

"You know what I'm going to ask you, Potter, don't you?" she said brusquely.

"I have a fairly good idea," Harry mumbled, his eyes fixed on his shoes.

McGonagall laid her hand on his arm again. He hesitantly raised his head – kindness was written all across her severe face.

"We both know," she began slowly, "that the Atra Nocta spell is a One-Side Spell. Only the caster of the spell has the power to lift it, which means you were without doubt the one who used this spell on Remus. I have complete faith in you, Harry, but I must ask you the question Nymphadora will certainly ask, too. Why did you hit Remus with such a powerful Dark spell in the first place?"

Harry stared wordlessly in McGonagall's eyes for a good minute. Then, just as he opened his mouth, a sigh and a ruffling of sheets drew their attention back to Remus' bed. He was moving.

McGonagall briefly glanced at Harry before going to check on Remus. Harry didn't follow her; his headache was worsening, reminding him of the terrible migraines he had suffered from right after Voldemort's death. He squeezed his eyes shut and leant against the table, in an attempt to ease the shooting pain.

"He needs nothing more than a good rest, now, I guess… Potter?"

Harry wearily opened his eyes. McGonagall was looking at him in concern.

"Headache," he mumbled as an answer to her questioning gaze, rubbing his temple with his left hand. "Need to lie down."

At this instant, the door opened and Madam Pomfrey's voice cut in the thick, still air of the hut.

"What is going on, Minerva? First I am _rudely_ thrown out of here, then Tonks comes to tell me Potter somehow healed my patient…"

Harry covered his eyes with his good hand, pushing his glasses on top of his head, and pressed hard on his forehead in an attempt to stop his head resounding like a gong. The ground suddenly didn't feel as steady as usual; it was swaying under his feet. Harry blindly grasped the edge of the table, his eyes still shut tightly, as he lost his balance and slid to the floor.

"For Merlin's sake, Potter!"

Someone was grabbing his shoulder and hauling him from the floor, making him sit with his back against Hagrid's old armchair. The neck of a bottle was pushed against his lips and a cool substance flowed into his mouth. He almost choked, but as soon as he was able to gulp down the liquid, he felt a new strength spreading into his body. The floor was firm and still once more and he tentatively opened his eyes to see Madam Pomfrey crouching next to him, an anxious look on her face and a bottle of Quick-Strengthening Beverage in her hand.

"Potter – you're just out of the Hospital Wing and you're doing Advanced Magic?" she said, the kindness in her voice contradicting the reproach. "And with your left hand, when you're right-handed? I'm not surprised you're so ill… You need to go back to the Hospital Wing; and you'll be kind enough to stay there until I tell you to leave. Tonks will help you."

Harry nodded, but stopped quickly as he felt the migraine coming back. He stood up with Tonks' help and together they got out of the hut.

They walked back to the castle in silence. Harry was looking straight in front of him, knowing that the slightest jerk of the head would bring another pang of pain, and Tonks was quietly walking alongside him. When they entered the Hospital Wing, they still hadn't said a word to each other. Tonks helped Harry out of his uniform; her eyes widened slightly when she saw the blood-red scars running across his chest, but she didn't make any comment. Harry plopped himself down on his pillows and let out a sigh of relief. The cool pillow was easing the headache a bit. He felt the mattress go down a few inches near his feet. Tonks had sat there.

He didn't look at her, silently praying that she would leave him alone.

"What happened, Harry?"

She didn't sound accusatory, but there was an unusual coolness in her voice. Harry closed his eyes. He wanted her to leave.

"You ran into Remus last night, didn't you?"

Harry sighed and reluctantly opened his eyes to look at her. Her face was set in a hard mask, and he knew she wouldn't go unless he gave her the answers she wanted.

"He's not responsible for all these," he tiredly said, gesturing towards his chest streaked with red scars. "There were about twenty of them…"

"But Remus is the one you cursed."

"Yes," said Harry in a barely audible whisper. There was no point in denying it. Tonks was an Auror; she knew what the Atra Nocta spell was.

Tonks rested her hand on Harry's bandaged shoulder; her expression softened a little when she asked:

"And your shoulder? Did he do it?"

Harry looked away from her; he didn't want to see the look on her face when he would answer, surely enough, he felt the hand on his shoulder tense when he nodded. Then there was a long pause.

"He didn't only scratch you. The wound's too deep."

Harry didn't answer. It wasn't a question.

"He bit you." Her voice was hushed and the last word caught in her throat.

Harry finally returned his gaze to her. Her face was paper-white and her chin was trembling like a very small girl's. She was looking at a spot on the wall behind him with a helpless, lost expression, her eyes widened in something that looked like terror. Just as he watched her, her shockingly green hair slowly turned to a dull, mousy brown, and sadly fell around her face.

He awkwardly covered Tonks' hand, still resting on his shoulder, with his own.

"Tell him I'm not angry at him," he said in an oddly hoarse voice. "Not in the slightest. Tell him that."

She looked back at him, tears slowly filling her eyes. Bending over him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him briefly. As he hugged her back with his good arm, she whispered in his ear:

"It'll break him…"

Then she released him and walked out of the Hospital Wing without another word, leaving Harry alone with his anxiety and his persisting headache.

On the evening of the same day, Harry's headache had long subsided but Madam Pomfrey stubbornly refused to hear him whenever he mentioned his eventual getting up. When he expressed the wish to write to Lance – who was certainly wondering why he hadn't showed up at training today – and to Hermione – because if she ever found out Lance Colman was more informed than her about Harry's state, he would be sure to never hear the end of it – Madam Pomfrey wouldn't even allow him to write himself. Therefore, Romilda Vane took upon herself to write the letters while Harry dictated. As soon as Romilda had gone to the Owlery with the two letters, however, Madam Pomfrey declared he had had enough intellectual activity for the time being and forced him to lie down in semi darkness, with the instructions to_stop thinking._

By the time night fell, Harry had counted a hundred times the number of cracks and damp spots visible on the white painting of the ceiling, and he had gone half-crazy with boredom. Tonks hadn't come to see him again and all he had heard about Remus was that he was conscious and fine, though tired and bruised. Madam Pomfrey went to check on him at half past ten and declared he had to spend the night there and that maybe, if she was satisfied by his condition, she would let him go the following morning.

Harry waited until the door of her office had closed behind her and then swung his legs out of the bed to sit on the edge of the mattress. Reaching under his pillow for his wand, he pointed it at Madam Pomfrey's door and muttered: "Muffliato." He cast the spell twice, just in case; Madam Pomfrey had the ears of a gun dog, and he really didn't want to be heard and made to lie down again. Spending a whole night awake in bed was out of question.

He silently got up and threw a few clothes on his back with some difficulty. Once he had gotten dressed, he swiftly made his way out of the Hospital Wing. Thank Merlin; his head was no longer hurting him.

Helped by his catlike sight in the dark, he aimlessly wandered in the castle for about half an hour, before finally deciding to head for the Owlery in case one of the owls he had sent would come back with a reply.

The Owlery was the same as ever, except for the thick beams supporting the ceiling, now scorched and blackened by the fire that had ravaged the castle during the war. Harry had been told that the owls had took some time before daring enter the room again; some of them had been caught in the fire and literally roasted, scaring away all the others which had flown for their lives. Then, some Death Eaters had thought very entertaining to shoot them one by one as they fled the burning Owlery. Owls had avoided Hogwarts for almost a year after that.

Harry sat on the windowsill, staring up at the moon, which was already high in the star-sparkled sky. A nasty shiver ran across his spine. He had never been fond of the icy, ghostly light cast by the silvery orb; but now the sight of it brought a cold feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He wondered if it was a side effect of a werewolf's condition.

Harry suddenly froze as he heard heavy footsteps in the staircase leading to the Owlery. He thought fast for a few seconds; if he stayed where he was, in the patch of moonlight, he would be seen and – most likely – sent back to the Hospital Wing. That was not an option. But leaving wasn't one, either – there was only one staircase leading up there and there was no way he could go down it unnoticed. As the footsteps drew nearer, he quietly retreated in the shadows, away from the window, and waited.

The dark silhouette of a tall man came into view and stood in the doorway; his shoulders were slumped and his stance betrayed either discouragement or exhaustion. Finally the man walked in the Owlery – and Harry, even if he had been expecting it, felt his heart leap in his chest when he recognized Remus.

Remus slowly dragged his feet to the window where Harry had been standing only moments before. Harry experienced another shock, along with a pang of guilt, when the moonlight fell on his lined face, illuminating the ugly gash running across his forehead. Other than that, though, Remus looked as fine as Harry had ever seen him after his transformations – except for his eyes. The glint he was used to seeing in Remus' eyes had gone, leaving them dull and hollow.

Remus slumped against the window frame, looking out of the window with the same empty eyes. Harry nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Remus showed no intention to leave any time soon, and as Harry wasn't looking forward to have a conversation with him, all he could do was try to leave without being noticed.

But even he couldn't hope to go unheard by a werewolf's sharp ear. He had just taken two steps towards the door when Remus turned sharply towards him, alerted by the very faint creak of a straw under his foot.

"Who's there?"

Harry sighed in resignation and turned back to him.

"Harry?" Remus asked in a toneless voice.

Harry nodded and, upon feeling he couldn't delay any longer a confrontation that would have to happen anyway, joined him at the window.

An awkward silence followed, as the two men avoided each other's eyes.

"Did you talk to Tonks?" Harry finally asked hesitantly.

Remus nodded. "Yes. And she told me what I've – what I –"

His voice suddenly shook and he had to take in a deep breath to calm down.

"After that I didn't see much of her," he went on in a low voice. "I didn't see anybody. I – I wanted to leave tomorrow morning… I didn't think I would run into you tonight, Madam Pomfrey said you were too ill to leave the Hospital Wing."

"Anybody who has the tiniest scratch is too ill to leave the Hospital Wing in Madam Pomfrey's opinion," Harry said with a slight smile. "Why didn't you see anybody? I'm sure Tonks would have been happy to spend the day with you – I heard her complaining very often about not having enough time to dedicate to pampering you…"

"I'm leaving tomorrow, Harry," Remus repeated in a strained, painful voice.

Harry frowned.

"You're leaving? Where?"

Remus shook his head, his breathing irregular, as if he was fighting back sobs – which was, to put it mildly, a completely ludicrous idea when coming from calm and composed Remus.

"Look, I – I know you said you weren't angry at me… And even now, you're talking as if nothing had happened… But something did happen Harry! I just passed on to you one of the most terrible curses known in the wizarding world… As if you hadn't been through enough… Do you really think you won't hate me, by the time your first transformation is over? Being a werewolf is a nightmare… I deserve to be hated. I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"Remus," Harry began, slightly alarmed by Remus' increasing restlessness.

"I can't afford friends," Remus went on, his voice trembling now with repressed sobs. "I always lived fearing constantly that I would wake up one day to find out I had ruined someone's life. I can't stay. I must go, go where I won't be a threat to anybody."

"Remus!" said Harry loudly, cutting across Remus' frantic monologue. "When I said I wasn't angry at you, I meant it. And I have no intention to change my mind anytime soon. I know it wasn't your fault; you had no control over your actions when it happened. Let me finish!" He raised his voice as Remus showed every sign of wanting to interrupt.

"I will never hate you. I need you as a friend. Tonks needs you as well. You can't leave, you just –"

"Harry, I can't even look at you in the eyes right now," Remus cried in frustration. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at myself in a mirror again, not after what I did. What do you think James would say if he knew I bit his only son?"

"He would probably say you're the world's biggest idiot for wanting to run away and stagnate in your bleeding loneliness!" Harry angrily retorted. "What the hell, Remus! You used to have three friends, who knew you were a werewolf, didn't you? Did they push you away when they learnt about you? D'you think _I'm_ gonna push you away? What about the Weasleys? And Hermione? And Tonks?"

"That was before I bit you!" Remus moaned, hiding his face in his hands.

"That was an accident!" roared Harry, now literally beside himself in fury. "A fucking combination of circumstances! There was no Wolfsbane potion left, I was outside on a night of full moon, I happened to run into a pack of werewolves, and of all the twenty werewolves longing to take a bite at me, you had to be the one to succeed! Well, that's all bad luck! And if it's anybody's fault, it's only mine; I should've known better than to wander outside last night. But _don't_ you say you're responsible for it!"

Harry paused, breathing hard. Remus was staring at his hands spread on the windowsill, but Harry wasn't sure he could really see them. He was still very pale and his eyes were wide and bloodshot, filled with utmost despair.

"Look," said Harry more calmly. "You cannot leave. I need you now, more than ever. You know the first thing I thought this morning, before I realised you were the werewolf that had bitten me? I thought I was lucky to have you as a friend, because then I wouldn't have to be alone for my transformations. Well, I'm still willing to spend them with you."

Remus shut his eyes and took in a shuddering breath. A single tear started to run down his cheek but he quickly wiped it with the back of his hand. He gulped and straightened up, and for the first time that evening his eyes met Harry's.

"I think you're right, you know," he murmured, sounding a lot calmer. "About James. Not only he would have said I was the world's biggest idiot, but he would have also punched me, just to make me stop yelling hysterically."

Harry grinned.

"The only reason why I didn't do it was that I can't use my right arm right now," he answered.

Remus smiled weakly. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "For biting you, for yelling, for wanting to leave, for doubting your friendship… I'm sorry, Harry."

"That's quite all right," Harry sighed, sitting on the window ledge next to Remus. "I must apologise too for cursing you, by the way… I almost killed you with that spell."

"That was a nice bit of magic, if you ask me," said Remus pleasantly with the usual glint finally back in his eyes. "I haven't got a clue where and how you learnt that spell, and I probably don't want to know. It was as nasty as one could wish. I had the feeling of drowning in a thick and black liquid, while my worst fears were coming true before my eyes, one after the other. Like an endless nightmares-filled night, very unpleasant."

"Sorry…" said Harry, a bit sheepishly.

Remus laughed. "Don't be. You lifted the curse, after all. Better still, you lifted it while you were sick and wounded, and that's a bit of an achievement! The Atra Nox…" he sighed, almost dreamily. "I'm very impressed, Harry."

"Thanks," Harry answered, grinning widely.

There was a silence, but this time it was comfortable.

"Harry… it didn't hurt when I bit you, did it?"

Harry shot at Remus a sharp look.

"No, it didn't," he said slowly. "I'm still insensitive."

Remus nodded, looking relieved. They remained silent for several long, serene minutes, before Harry suddenly saw the shape of a bird outlined against the moon.

"That's an owl," said Remus, who had noticed the small black shape Harry was staring at. "You're expecting mail?"

"Maybe… I sent a letter to Hermione, but I didn't think she would write back today, she's working all day long… And as for the other person I wrote to, I would be surprised if he bothered to answer at all…"

The owl finally reached the Owlery Tower and rushed into the circular room, dropping a letter at Harry's feet. He carefully picked it up and unfolded it.

"It's from Lance," he said, surprised. "I really didn't think he would muster the strength to take a quill."

_Harry,_

_You won't be surprised to hear Robards was furious at you. Actually, "furious" doesn't even begin to describe what he was. He yelled at Hampton for half an hour without pausing to breathe. The guys were taking bets on how long he would last before one of his veins bursts. I made sure someone told him you had a serious accident, but be sure to get your ass back at training as soon as possible, or at least come tomorrow to explain your absence. Robards is very close to firing you._

_I hope you'll be able to tell me what on earth happened to you this time, so I can marvel at your bad luck again._

_Try to recover quickly; training's not funny without you._

_Lance._

Harry smiled to himself as he folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Lance's carelessness annoyed most of the people who knew him, but Harry was only amused by it. It was a nice change from the seriousness everybody thought appropriate when addressing him – the 'Boy Who Lived'.

"Who's Lance?" asked Remus.

"Just a guy from work," Harry answered, still smiling. "An Auror apprentice, like me. He was writing to say my Head of Department was considering firing me for my absence. Ah well, the man never liked me anyway…"

He looked sideways at Remus and was surprised to see his worried expression.

"What?" he said curiously. "If I say I had an accident, which I can easily prove –" he gestured towards his bandaged shoulder, "– he can't fire me. Anyway, Scrimgeour won't let him. He almost forced him to put up with me for the past two years."

But Remus shook his head, nervously biting his lower lip.

"Harry, people don't like employing werewolves. I just hope you won't lose your job because of me…"

Harry opened his mouth, then, not knowing what to say, he closed it again.

There was a short silence.

"Oh," said Harry at last. "I hadn't thought of that."


	6. In the Moonlight

**Chapter Six: In the Moonlight**

Harry had always thought it was impossible for him to attract even more stares than per usual whenever he came to the Ministry, but he was proved wrong as soon as he had taken two steps within the Atrium the following morning. People now didn't merely follow him with their eyes: they were openly gaping at him – stopping dead in their tracks when they saw him, bulging-eyed and open-mouthed.

_It's just an arm in a sling,_ he thought irritably as he glared at a portly woman, who had abruptly fallen silent in the middle of a conversation at the sight of him. _But from the way they're goggling, I feel like I've sprouted an extra leg or something_.

They were probably all assuming he had fought with Dark Creatures – which wasn't completely untrue, he had to admit – or, more likely still, that he had indulged in dangerous and dark magical practices. Harry Potter didn't even have the right to have an accident. From a wizard who was thought to be incredibly powerful – could it be otherwise, when he had defeated the Dark Lord? – it was just suspicious.

By the time Harry reached the second level, word seemed to have already spread in the whole Ministry that Potter had gotten a mysterious wound during the night. Catching a trainee peering at his shoulder, Harry tugged on his cloak to conceal the bandage. No doubt he would soon 'accidentally' bump into at least one journalist hanging about at the Ministry, and they would be more than glad to jump at the chance to write a juicy article about him; he didn't want to give them an opportunity to photograph him so as to prove he had been wounded. He had enough publicity as it were, thank you very much.

Immersed in his thoughts, Harry didn't see a man coming out of a door on his right until he ran straight into him.

"Hey, watch it!" an angry voice shot at him.

Harry mumbled "sorry" and walked round the man, checking on his watch as he walked away; he'd better not be late at his appointment today. Especially since he was not only meeting Robards this time, but also Rufus Scrimgeour himself.

But the man he had bumped into suddenly called out:

"Potter?"

His voice held a familiar drawl – very familiar indeed.

Harry hadn't heard that voice in two whole years.

He spun around. A tall and slim blond-haired, pale-faced man was looking at him, his eyes widened in sudden recognition. As Harry remained speechless, shocked to come face to face with the ex-Death Eater, his face broke into the smirk Harry had come to hate.

"Surprised to see me here, are you?" Malfoy drawled.

"I must admit I am," Harry answered coldly. "How did you wriggle your way out of the bunch of crimes you were charged with?"

Malfoy's smirk widened.

"Connections are always useful, Potter," he said smoothly. "I had more witnesses ready to testify that I am a law-abiding and respectable pure-blood wizard than I could count."

"Really? How much did you have to spend on them?" spat Harry.

As far as he was concerned, Malfoy was a Death Eater who had been more than happy to help Voldemort to take and burn Hogwarts. Malfoy had been struggling through several trials for the past two years; he had come very close to being sentenced to spend ten years in Azkaban once or twice. Seeing him free, healthy and strutting in the Ministry of Magic was infuriating.

"Freedom has its cost," Malfoy said carelessly, "but at least now I am perfectly free to act the heir of the most prestigious family of Great Britain again. Here I am, cleared of all charges, and most importantly reinserted in the wizarding society as the victim of a_dreadful_ miscarriage of justice."

His malevolent eyes trailed on Harry's right arm, bent and supported in the sling, and on the bandage visible under the black cloak that had slid off Harry's shoulder when they had collided. Harry drew back the cloak on his arm and Malfoy sniggered.

"You don't look like _you're_ out of trouble, now, do you Potter?" he said amusedly. "What happened to you? Who attacked you? I must send my congratulations."

"What happened to me is nothing compared to what's about to happen to you if you don't shut your face," Harry snarled. "You'd better watch your step, Malfoy. I won't miss a single opportunity to have you sent to Azkaban where you belong."

Malfoy laughed softly.

"This is really funny. Three quarters of the wizarding community think you've lost your marbles, did you know that? They wouldn't object to sending _you_ to Azkaban, Potter. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's not that the idea of chatting all day with you doesn't appeal to me –" he negligently pulled a golden watch out of his pocket and consulted it with his eyebrows raised, "– but I have a press conference beginning in five minutes. I'll see you around, I guess… if you're not permanently sent to St Mungo's by the time I'm done with the journalists, that is."

And with a last smirk in Harry's direction, he walked away in the direction of the lifts.

Harry wheeled around and strode away, anger boiling in his veins. The worst part of it all was that Malfoy was right; now he had proved his 'innocence', his family would never be troubled by justice again. It was just – sickening.

"Harry!"

Harry started as the sound of his name abruptly pulled him out if his thoughts; raising his head, he saw Lance emerging from the Aurors' Headquarters at a few feet from him and coming to meet him.

"So, how're you doing?" said Lance, looking uncharacteristically anxious. Then, without waiting for an answer, he went on: "You'd better hurry up, Scrimgeour just showed up at Robards' office and they're waiting for you."

"I was delayed," Harry replied as he quickened his pace. "I ran into Malfoy."

Lance let out a low whistle.

"So that scumbag is free to come and go, now?" he said.

"Yep," said Harry disgustedly. "Cleared of all charges and showing off in a press conference."

Lance shook his head.

"When I hear things like that, I suddenly remember the reason why I chose this job in the first place."

"That is to say?" Harry asked as they strode across the buzzing hall divided into cubicles; he was smiling in advance at the answer.

"It'll give me plenty of opportunities to enjoy the look on the faces of cowardly arrogant gits like Malfoy, when I do something nice such as… shoving a search warrant in their face, taking away their wand or – my personal favourite – telling them their rights and handcuffing them while they're crying shame and reciting the list of their illustrious ancestors at the top of their voices," Lance said with a dreamy look on his face.

Harry burst out laughing, attracting a few glares from the Aurors surrounding them. They had now reached the office where Robards' secretary vegetated. She was once more ruffling into an incredible mass of papers, looking completely lost, and she started with a small yelp when the two apprentices closed the door behind them.

"Potter's here to see Robards," Lance said loudly before she had the time to open her mouth, "and I'm here to wait for him."

"Wait for him?" she stammered, looking at Lance with wide eyes. "In-in my office?"

"Of course, why not?" Lance asked innocently. He and Harry knew fully well they were not supposed to be hanging around in the secretaries' offices – there had been a few 'incidents' between Auror apprentices and female employees before. "Harry's my friend, and I can hardly wait for him in the hall, can I? There's always so much hustle and bustle there. I'd get in the way."

As he talked, he gave Harry a little push in the direction of Robards' office. Harry walked up to the door and had just the time to hear Lance cut in the secretary's protests by a flirtatious: "It's a shame to confine someone with such beautiful eyes in a dark office…", before he opened the door, stepped in the Head Auror's office and closed the door again behind him.

Robards was sitting behind his huge desk, looking thoroughly disgruntled, and Scrimgeour was nervously pacing. Surprisingly enough, the atmosphere was smoke-free – something that Harry had never witnessed since he had been taken on as an apprentice. Maybe it had something to do with Scrimgeour's presence.

"Harry!" said Scrimgeour affably when he caught sight of him, waiting by the door. "How nice to see you again! Sit down, please. We have a few things to discuss."

Harry sat on the only seat available – none other than the hard, straight-backed chair he had sat on a mere two days ago. Scrimgeour conjured an armchair to sit next to him; as soon as they were both settled, he handed Harry a scroll of parchment.

"Please read this. It's the medical report from Healer Parletoo, which he wrote after seeing you this morning."

Harry unrolled the scroll of parchment and quickly scanned it. After he had skipped the usual administrative considerations and the account of his many visits at St Mungo's, his eyes finally landed on a paragraph at the bottom of the parchment.

_The bite is very deep; the contamination was unavoidable. The wound couldn't be healed completely due to the werewolf venom, and Mr. Potter will have to keep his bandage for a few more days. I was pleased to notice Mr. Potter takes his new condition quite well, and I was surprised by his quick recovery after suffering a werewolf's attack. _

That was it. Harry lifted his eyes from the parchment and sent Scrimgeour an enquiring glance. The Minister looked nervous and ill-at-ease.

"These are terrible news, Harry," said Scrimgeour with a shake of the head. "I am so sorry. Merlin knows you've been through quite enough, without adding a werewolf's bite. I offer you my most sincere condolences."

Harry nodded, not quite knowing how he should react to this. "Thank you, Minister," he answered awkwardly.

Scrimgeour slightly bowed his head to acknowledge Harry's answer, still wearing the same contrite expression that looked oddly out of place on his sharp and shrewd features.

"Be assured you'll receive all the help you ask for," he went on gravely. "Your new… condition… will be known only to a very few people, and no revelation about it will be made to the journalists. As for your job, I'm thinking about giving you a position in my own office. It'll be a quiet, well-paid job, with possibility to be promoted very soon. You'll be able to take all the vacation you need."

"Last time I checked, Potter was in my Department, Rufus," boomed Robards suddenly; he was watching Scrimgeour with narrowed, resentful eyes. "Since when are you deciding what is to happen to _my_ apprentices?"

Scrimgeour looked mildly surprised at Robards' intrusion in the conversation, and shot at him a glance that was both confused and wary.

"Come on, Gawain," he said uncertainly. "I thought it was for the best. Of course Mr. Potter, as _your_ apprentice, will hand in his resignation to _you_, and after that only, I'll be more than happy to give him the position I've been talk–"

"Potter, did you come here to resign?" Robards asked, his thundering voice drowning Scrimgeour's.

"No," Harry replied, himself a tad confused by the behaviour of his Head of Department.

"Then I don't see why you would fabricate a sinecure in your office for Potter, Rufus," Robards went on, turning back to Scrimgeour.

The Minister now looked really annoyed.

"Come on, Gawain," he said again, but this time his tone was dry rather than soothing. "Don't be ridiculous. A _werewolf_ as an Auror? You can't be serious!"

Robards scoffed. "I'm dead serious, Scrimgeour," he growled. "Potter would make a decent Auror, and if you think I'm gonna give up on one of _my apprentices,_ just because he has to be off once a month, you're barking up the wrong tree. He's gonna work twice as hard to make up for his absences, and he's gonna pass his exam, damnit!"

"I don't understand you," Scrimgeour barked angrily at him. "You've been complaining loudly every day since I encouraged you to take Potter as an apprentice, and now you're finally rid of him, you make a scene to keep him! Make up your mind, Gawain!"

"I don't like it when you interfere with the way I run _my_ department!" Robards roared, the famed vein starting to pulse on his reddening neck. "I'm the one who decide _who_ I wanna train and _who_ I wanna fire! Potter's gonna stay a frickin' apprentice of mine, whether you like it or not!"

Now pale with fury, Scrimgeour rose to his feet and walked to Robards' desk; leaning forwards, he placed both hands on the desk and brought his face inches to Robards' purple one.

"What if I _made_ you fire him?" he hissed, his voice dangerously low and his eyes fixed on Robards', obviously trying to make the Head Auror look down.

Robards stared up in Scrimgeour's face, looking completely unfazed by the Minister's threat.

"I'll sulk," he answered simply.

Harry fought back a burst of laughter just in time. Robards couldn't be serious. But even as he watched, Scrimgeour's menacing expression turned to vague anxiety, and he slowly straightened up under Robards' satisfied gaze.

"Well," said the Minister rather stiffly. "I guess I'll let the pair of you work out the issues on your own, then."

"You would do well," smirked Robards. "Goodbye, Scrimgeour."

Scrimgeour's eyes flashed in anger and his lips thinned, and for a minute Harry thought he was going to retort; but then Scrimgeour swiftly turned on his heel and walked out of the office without even a glance in Harry's direction.

As soon as the door closed behind Scrimgeour, Robards dived for the cigar box on his desk and avidly lit one. He expelled the first puff of fragrant smoke with a blissful expression.

"Asshole," he said to no one in particular, a satisfied look on his face. "Not only he forbids me to smoke in my own office, but he also wants to teach me how to deal with my apprentices."

Harry, who had the distinct feeling that his presence had been forgotten for quite a long time now, coughed softly to attract Robards' attention. The Head Auror looked mildly surprised at first to see him still perched on the edge of the wooden chair; then, pulling himself back together, he said gruffly:

"So, Potter – it seems you were stupid enough to run into a bunch of werewolves last night."

"So it seems," Harry agreed, smiling slightly. No matter the conversation he had just witnessed, things were obviously still the same between him and Robards. "I think I have to thank you for not letting the Minister relegate me in his office…"

Robards snorted. "Don't believe I will favour you because I just taught Rufus to mind his own business," he grunted. "I'm only keeping you because I think you could make a good Auror, with appropriate training. You'd better work hard, Potter, I'm telling you. I won't hesitate one second to fire you if you don't have the necessary qualities to be part of my teams. And this time I doubt the Minister will be there to force me to keep you," he added with satisfaction.

He blew another puff of smoke and scratched his chin as he eyed Harry intently, in an appraising sort of way.

"As soon as your arm's functional again, I expect you to train twice as hard as any of your fellow apprentices, to make up for all the time wasted because of your wound," he said at last in a curt tone. "In the meantime, practice your spell-casting with your left hand. We can always use an ambidextrous Auror. Now off you go."

Harry obligingly stood up and reached the door with two strides. Just as he was about to turn the doorknob, Robards called out:

"Oh, and one last thing – don't you dare claim I stood up for you against Scrimgeour, or I'll throw you out of a window."

Harry had to suppress a grin.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir," he answered.

When he finally got out of the Head Auror's office, which was now rapidly re-filling with cigar smoke, he found Lance snogging Robards' secretary on her desk.

"Sorry for interrupting your fun," Harry said, this time not bothering to hide his wide grin. "But we should go back to training."

Lance emitted a muffled sound and managed to nod without breaking the kiss; Harry had to admit such a feat was impressive. Three seconds later, Lance had finally emerged from the secretary's glue-like embrace and joined Harry, who was already in the hall, waiting patiently by the open door.

"Thanks for everything, babe, I'll call you," Lance carelessly shot at the flushed girl just before closing her door. "If I remember your name," he added in an undertone so that only Harry could hear him.

And ignoring the curious glances many Aurors sent them as they passed, they went back to the apprentices' quarters.

* * *

At six thirty, they weren't out of training yet. The head of patrol Hampton was pacing in the room, snapping orders and injunctions at the tired and sweaty apprentices. Lance was roughly kicked off the bench he had been lying on, and another right-placed kick sent him to climb – once more – up a thick rope hanging from the ceiling. 

Harry was very conscious of the envious glares he was receiving from his exhausted fellow apprentices. All he had done since he had showed up – two hours late – at training, was practising his spell-casting with his left hand. He felt like he was the one to complain, though. He was clumsy with his left hand and hours of practice had done very little to improve his aim. Every single movement, that had become reflexive and effortless whenever he was using his right hand, had to be decomposed and slowly learnt all over again for his left-handed spell-casting. The only curses he had got right were those that didn't entail complicated wand-waving – basically, the curses that only involved pointing the wand at the target.

The task was boring and tedious, and he was annoyed by his lack of improvement. His left hand seemed to always jerk the wrong way at the last minute, sending the spell off course, and more than once he had almost hit another apprentice that had been stupid enough to wander near his area of practice.

Squinting in concentration, he aimed once again a simple Stunner at the round target encased in the wall. He had stared at the red and black concentric circles for so long that he was starting to have a headache. _Why won't Hampton call it a day and send us off?_

"_Stupefy!"_

A red beam shot from the tip of his wand – and missed the centre of the target, hitting the widest red circle instead. Harry swore loudly.

"Having trouble?" said a feminine, slightly husky voice on his right.

"Obviously", snapped Harry without bothering to look round. He pointed his wand at the target again.

"You're aiming as if you had never held a wand before," said the same voice.

"Oh, really?" barked Harry. "In case you haven't noticed, I can't use my bloody right arm!"

He was having enough trouble as it were, without having to answer stupid remarks. He concentrated harder than before; but then, just as he said the incantation, a cool hand rested on his upper arm. His hand jerked in surprise at the unexpected contact and sent the spell off course – again.

"Wow, nervous, are we?"

Harry closed his eyes for a minute. It would do no good to yell at whoever had made a point of preventing him to work for the last ten minutes. He dropped his arm and finally turned to see who the voice and the hand belonged to.

She was a tall and thin apprentice, with dark brown hair that was cut short and hung loosely around her face; Harry had noticed her several times at training – she was quite agile, very athletic, and she seemed to achieve very good results without working hard. Other than that, he was totally incapable of remembering her name.

"I'm Amy Redburn, in case you don't remember," she said in a slightly drawling voice.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well, I didn't remember," he said bluntly. "What do you want?"

She watched him for a moment, a slight smile tugging at her lips and an amused glint in her eyes, until Harry opened his mouth to ask what was so funny about him. But she spoke up before he had a chance to say a word.

"Why, I just want to help you. I'm left-handed." And she showed him her left hand, holding her wand. "Hard to get the correct wand-waving when you're not using your usual hand. I suppose we can work together, is that okay with you?"

Harry considered her proposition for a few seconds. He didn't like the idea of working with someone else; he had always trained alone. On the other hand, he was not making any progress at the time being. It would do no harm to give her a try. He nodded.

"All right."

She smiled at him, her head tilted to one side, but she didn't have the time to say anything else: Hampton's whistle had finally rang across the room, greeted by the groans of satisfaction from the exhausted apprentices. Harry said a quick goodbye to Amy and hastily went into the changing room. He had to get out of there quickly: after the events of the previous day, he felt that a meeting of all his old friends was in order.

* * *

"Let me get this straight," said Hermione, staring at her hands clasped together on the kitchen table before her. "You're a werewolf." 

"That's what I've been explaining for the past ten minutes, I think," replied Harry, leaning a bit wearily against the table.

A stunned silence filled the kitchen of the Burrow. All nine Weasleys were gaping at Harry, as well as half of the members of the old Order of the Phoenix, who had gathered there at Harry's request. The only ones who didn't seem altogether shocked were those who already knew about Harry's condition – McGonagall, Tonks and Remus – and Luna Lovegood.

"No way," said Ron finally in a hoarse voice.

"For once in our life, I think we're going to agree with Ron on that," said Fred, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. "That's just not possible."

Harry shot a sideway look at Remus; he had gone deadly pale and contemplated the pattern of the tiled floor, as if it held some fascinating message he wanted to decipher. Tonks' eyes were nearly pleading as they met Harry's.

"Why is it so difficult to understand?" Harry asked. "I was enough of a fool to go out on a night of full moon, I met a werewolf and I got bitten. Simple."

At least that statement seemed to shake Hermione out of her stupor; a familiar expression of exasperation came on her face and she rolled her eyes at Harry.

"You know it's not that simple, Harry! It's like – hearing you say you became a vampire! It would be hard to imagine you sucking random people's blood at night, wouldn't it? Well, it's just as hard to imagine you sprouting fur and claws and bawling at the full moon!"

"You never had much imagination, did you?" Luna said amiably to Hermione. "_I_ think it makes sense," she added, gazing dreamily at Harry. "It makes perfect sense for you to get bitten."

"What d'you mean, it makes sense?" Ginny shot at her in a slightly trembling voice. "You think it was his destiny or some bullshit like that?"

At these words, Luna's round eyes went even rounder and Mrs. Weasley jumped on her chair as if she had received an electrical discharge.

"Ginny Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley protested, firing up at once. "Where have you learnt such foul language?"

Ginny rolled her eyes and seemed about to snap back when Luna cut across her.

"I never said it was his destiny," she said, sounding slightly reproving. "I just said it was logical: he got some unknown powers in his seventh year when he defeated Voldemort, and now he's just gotten another power."

"You think becoming a werewolf is a new _power_?" Ginny asked disbelievingly.

Behind her, the twins' faces had broken in two identical, malicious grins, as they undoubtedly expected to enjoy Luna's answer. Hermione had taken an expression of infinite patience and Ron was warily looking at Luna. Even Harry felt mildly curious about what wild theory was about to come out of the odd girl's mouth.

"Well, yes," said Luna matter-of-factly. "Werewolves are very powerful creatures, few spells can affect them and they're strong and enduring. But most of all – they used to be a powerful people. Even more powerful than wizards themselves! They were able to turn into wolves as well, but _they _could control their actions. And they could make the wind change its course just by howling at the moon, and they had great unknown powers like this one. Of course they were slaughtered a long time ago, so now the only thing that remains of that people are today's werewolves…"

"Okay, we all got your point!" Ron interrupted loudly.

"Isn't there a way Harry could have avoided infection?" Ginny asked the room at large. She sounded slightly desperate, as if she was frantically struggling to come back to a ground she had walked on before.

"No, there isn't," Remus spoke up, his voice hoarse and strained. "As soon as the teeth sink in the flesh, infection is unavoidable."

"But what if he –"

"Know what, as much as I love it when you're talking as if I wasn't in the room, I'd like to have a say in this," Harry said impatiently. "Honestly, that's no big deal. I'll live perfectly normally except for the nights I'll have to transform. And even these won't be a problem: I'll take Wolfsbane Potion, and Remus will stay with me."

The Weasleys twins were now nodding, with expressions as close to thoughtfulness as Harry had ever seen on their faces, and Ron looked relieved; but Ginny refused to meet Harry's eyes and was staring instead at the dishes piled in the sink. Hermione's eyes were slowly going from Remus to Harry and back again, her eyes slightly narrowed in a doubtful expression, as if she wasn't sure Harry could handle a transformation if she wasn't there to tell him exactly what to do. Mrs. Weasley suddenly sniffed loudly, and everyone turned to her; she had tears in her eyes.

"Harry, dear…" she said with a slight quaver in her voice. "I'm so sorry… I haven't s-seen you in months and now – and now that you're finally coming home, you're telling me you're a – a –"

She choked on her words and dabbed her eyes with her apron. Harry started to fidget nervously; he had never been good at handling crying people.

"Well, know that the house is always open for you," she went on, a little firmer. "And if there is anything you need, we're here… We're all here…"

"I know," muttered Harry awkwardly. "I know that, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you, it means a lot to me."

There was a long, embarrassed silence. Then Fleur Weasley's silvery voice sounded from the doorway leading to the living room.

"Well, I would 'ate to ruin ze mood, but I theenk we'd better 'ave dinner while ze baby is still asleep."

Mrs. Weasley sprang to her feet. "Oh my Merlin! Dinner! I had almost forgotten!"

Barely a minute later, she had everyone help her to make dinner and lay the table, and the kitchen was filled with sudden activity. In all the confusion, Harry made his way to the door of the living room to say hello to Fleur; he hadn't seen her in a long time.

She was leaning against the doorframe, a dazzling smile illuminating her beautiful face; not for the first time, Harry thought Bill was a really lucky man.

"Hello, Fleur," he said.

"Hi Arry!" she said brightly, seizing him by the shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks. "It's been a while! And you've managed to become even more 'andsome when I 'ad my back turned!"

Harry laughed aloud, though he could still feel himself blushing at Fleur's compliment. "You don't look too bad yourself," he said with a grin.

"Yes, I was afraid my silhouette would be definitely damaged by my pregnancy," she answered as she slid her hands down her sides, as if wanting to measure her waist. "But I was lucky. Now I theenk of it, you've never met little James, now, have you?" she added suddenly, with a suspicious look.

"Err… no, I haven't – James?" Harry repeated suddenly, struck by Fleur's choice of a name for her baby.

Fleur rolled her dark blue eyes. Strange how she could do something so ungraceful and still look stunning.

"What's your problem, all of you, wiz James' name?" she asked grumpily. "Remus jumped about two feet in ze air when I told him, too, and he pointedly refused to tell me why he was so surprised. Isn't it a pretty name? It's ze only Eenglish name I like. Except for Bill, of course. And Arry is not bad either." And as she finished her sentence, she addressed Harry another one of her beautiful smiles.

Harry nodded to acknowledge the half-compliment.

"James is – was – the name of my father," he explained shortly.

Fleur's eyes widened slightly.

"Oh, now zat's an amusing coincidence!" she exclaimed with an excited expression. "I just wanted to ask you if you would like to be James' godfather! Because I can't choose among all of Bill's brothers, _zat's_ what's annoying in big families, when you do someone a favour you make all ze others jealous. You want to, don't you?"

Harry stared wordlessly at her young and beautiful face, alight with hope. Apparently, it hadn't occurred to Fleur that Harry could find painful to be the godfather of a child bearing his dead father's name.

_But then, maybe she's right. Let the dead be dead, and let's move on… Or at least, let's try to._

"All right," he finally answered.

Next second Fleur had given a squeak of delight and thrown her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. Taken unawares, Harry had just the time to grab her before she fell over and stumbled a bit under her weight. But at the same time, he couldn't help grinning.

* * *

The month passed fast. Harry was training very hard to improve his spell-casting with his left hand. Amy Redburn had been of some help, correcting his movements and showing him how he had to put his whole body in symbiosis with his left hand – a complicated concept that involved reversing completely all the reflexes he had ever acquired in his life, so that his whole body could follow his left hand when he was fighting. Amy was efficient, though she spent far too much time flirting with him in Harry's opinion – among other things, she never missed an opportunity to touch him, and often her hand lingered on his body a second longer than necessary. Harry had to suffer the other apprentices' endless teasing about it; Amy was known to be quite easy, and she had never been ignored for so long by any male she had ever come across to. Instead of being discouraged by his indifference, she actually seemed to enjoy the challenge. 

Harry had no intention to start anything with her – though it would actually be a good way to get rid of her. But the painful scene he had had with Ginny was still in his mind, and he didn't think he could handle a new relationship, even if 'relationship' was a strong word to qualify Amy's short-lived affairs.

What with his training with Amy Redburn, little James Weasley's christening and his visits at St Mungo's – now more frequent than ever – Harry didn't have much time to spare for thinking about his new condition as a werewolf. He went on leading the life he had known since he had been out of Hogwarts; his bandage was taken off after three weeks, and he very happily retrieved the use of his right hand. However, he went on training with both hands, following Robards' orders.

Therefore, it came as a shock when he received one morning an owl from Remus, reminding him that full moon was the following night and that he was to meet him at Hogwarts. He stared at the parchment for a few long minutes, and for the first time he felt a slight panic swelling within him at the thought of the coming night. He remembered Remus saying it was very painful to transform into a werewolf, but as he was still unable to feel physical pain, he needn't worry about that; actually, what really frightened him was the idea of losing control of himself. He knew what it felt like to be controlled by someone else, and he wasn't eager to experience the feeling again. Not being able to remember what he had done… Not knowing…

Harry mentally shook himself. He was being stupid. There would be Wolfsbane potion, he wouldn't lose control. He would merely transform into a harmless wolf, and wait till the morning. In the end, the night was likely to be pretty boring.

In spite of this comforting thought, Harry couldn't help dreading the coming transformation. His stomach was clenched and he was in a state of constant nervousness, bordering panic. The feeling was quite familiar; it was somewhere between the butterflies he had felt before his very first Quidditch match and his barely controlled panic before confronting a Hungarian Horntail in his fourth year. His hands were shaking slightly that night when he fastened his cloak to his shoulders, as he prepared to Apparate to Hogsmeade.

The sun hadn't set yet, and it was bathing the whole valley in warm golden light. Harry hurried along the main road leading to the gates of Hogwarts, his immense shadow stretched on the grass and running alongside him.

He walked very fast across the grounds; the mere idea that he could be caught outdoors by the full moon made him shudder. He tensed even more as the minutes passed, and finally broke into a run when the gigantic oak doors came into sight.

He jogged up the stone steps and ran across the Entrance Hall, his footsteps echoing loudly on the stone walls. He dashed through the door leading to the dungeons; it was only when he found himself in the abhorred corridor – Snape's corridor – that he forced himself to calm down and to walk at a steady pace. Remus had told him to meet him in Snape's office, where they would drink their potion. Harry wasn't too fond of the idea: even after they had fought the war side by side, he and the Potions Master still avoided seeing each other as much as possible. As a matter of fact, Harry hadn't seen him in a whole year at least.

Harry paused in front of Snape's door. He could already hear the bubbling and hissing sounds, meaning that several strange potions were being brewed inside the damp and dark room. He took a deep breath, knocked once and, upon hearing Snape's voice telling him to come in, opened the door.

As he had expected, Snape was busy over two cauldrons – one containing a greenish and thick substance lazily bubbling, and the other filled with an electric blue potion, much more liquid than the greenish one. Harry recognised the blue potion: it was Veritaserum – or rather, it would become Veritaserum in a week or two; it still lacked half of the necessary ingredients, which explained why it wasn't as clear and transparent as water yet. As for the other potion, Harry was absolutely clueless. All he could say was that it wasn't a potion Aurors were used to brewing, otherwise he would have recognised it as well.

"Potter." Snape had raised his head and was watching him through narrowed eyes, thick curtains of greasy hair hanging around his face and partly hiding it from Harry's view. But in spite of the hair and the colourful smokes that hung in the air and blurred Harry's vision, he could still see there was something more than the usual disgusted expression on the Potions Master's features. He looked almost_gleeful_.

"Snape," Harry answered curtly.

"What brings here the almighty Chosen One, if I may ask?" murmured Snape, his eyes fixed on Harry's face and still shining with a kind of fierce joy.

"Professor McGonagall must have told you," said Harry through gritted teeth. "I've been bitten by a werewolf a month ago."

"Oh yes," said Snape with a smirk, "the Headmistress did tell me about your… misfortune. But I still don't understand why you disturbed me tonight."

Harry's eyes narrowed. No… he wouldn't have…

"Tonight's full moon, Snape," he said tensely.

Snape's black eyes widened exaggeratedly, and he affected to check out Harry's information on a calendar fixed on a wall.

"Whoops," he said, barely hiding his smirk. "I was so _sure_ it wasn't until tomorrow! Ah, that's a pity…"

He looked in the cauldron full of greenish potion.

"Tssk, tssk, tssk," he said gravely. "The Wolfsbane potion isn't quite ready yet. I'm afraid you can't drink it tonight. Unless you want to poison yourself," he added with another smirk. "Then feel free to empty the whole cauldron."

Harry felt himself going pale with anger and his hands curled into fists at his sides. In order to satisfy his hatred of Harry, Snape was forcing both him and Remus to suffer the full consequences of the transformation. Harry would never have thought he would be able to deprive them of the Wolfsbane Potion; it seemed that he had underestimated Snape's resentment. Once more.

Harry turned on his heel and strode out of the office; if he stayed in there one more minute, he would probably lose his temper and hit Snape. He caught Snape's sarcastic: "Have a good night, Potter!" before he slammed the door shut so violently that it trembled on its hinges.

Harry met Remus halfway to the Entrance Hall.

"Harry, we need to – what happened?" said Remus, spotting the murderous look on Harry's pale face.

"No Wolfsbane Potion tonight," answered Harry through clenched teeth.

Remus blanched. "What?" he repeated in a toneless voice.

Harry stopped walking and looked at Remus straight in the eyes; then he noticed, for the first time, that Remus' eyes were not of their usual brownish colour: they were yellow, like a wolf's eyes. He wondered if his own eyes had changed, too.

"No Wolfsbane Potion," he repeated loud and clear. "Snape conveniently forgot to brew it."

Remus was still staring at him, and for the second time in one month, Harry saw panic reflected in the yellow eyes.

"We must go and convince him – he can't – you need to –"

"Remus," said firmly Harry, forgetting his anger at Remus' distress. "There's no point in asking him anything, and you know it. I don't think it'll be so bad anyway. There will be the two of us, for a start –"

"Yes, but we can be driven to fight and bite each other," said Remus wearily.

"Well, at least we can _try_ not to" said Harry impatiently. "And anyway, we can't stay chatting here until the moon rises. Unless we sneak back into Snape's office and transform there, with him in the room –"

"Don't joke about these things, Harry," said Remus sharply. "You're right, we have to move. Let's go."

"Where are we going?" Harry asked curiously as he walked alongside Remus towards the Entrance Hall. "The Forest?"

"No. The Shrieking Shack."

Harry thought of the dusty room, with its broken furniture and its boarded windows, that he had discovered in his third years; and a shudder ran across his spine. It was probably safe to transform here, but he hated the place – there was a feeling of rage and despair still hanging in the air of the Shack, even years after Remus had last transformed there.

_Tonight, the Shack will be Shrieking again,_ thought Harry, a sinking sensation in his stomach.

When they reached the edge of the Forest, where the Whomping Willow was still standing guard above the mouth of the tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack, the sun was bloody red and cast its last beams over the trees of the Forbidden Forest before sinking behind the mountains.

"Let's hurry," said Remus curtly.

They froze the tree with a well-aimed spell from Harry, who hit the right knot on the root with admirable accuracy – and as he was using his left hand, he couldn't help but feel quite pleased with himself – and disappeared in the tunnel. They walked silently, almost doubled up since the ceiling was so low, and reached the Shack after about an hour of walking. Remus was slightly breathless, and Harry's heart was beating very hard against his ribcage.

Harry hauled himself up into the Shack by the trapdoor, and helped Remus to get into the room. As soon as they were both in the Shrieking Shack, Remus panted:

"Close the trapdoor and lock it with your wand."

Harry did as he was told; meanwhile, Remus was getting up and discarding his cloak and robes, only keeping on an old tee-shirt and worn out trousers. He opened an ancient wardrobe that stood in a corner and put his things inside; Harry got rid of his cloak and robes as well and left them in the wardrobe too. Then Remus locked the door with another spell, and slid his wand in the pocket of his trousers.

"We'll be able to retrieve them in our pockets at the end of the transformation," he explained shortly to Harry, "but it's better to avoid having too many clothes on."

Harry just nodded and imitated him.

Then they waited.

Remus was sitting on the old broken couch, staring down at his hands. Harry was pacing round and round in the small room, a hundred thoughts turning over and over again in his mind. After about fifteen minutes, a golden beam filtered through a crack in one of the boards masking a window, and fell, very briefly, on Remus' tired and lined face. He abruptly looked up, just as the last sunbeam died.

"It's nearly time," he murmured.

The last minutes before the rise of the moon were excruciatingly slow. Darkness gradually crept in the room; Remus had begun to pace, too, and he was sweating profusely. His hands were clasped behind his back, but Harry could still see them shaking. _Feel _them shaking, rather, for his senses seemed even sharper than usual.

And then Remus suddenly stopped.

"It's time," he croaked, his voice unrecognisable. He had gone deadly pale, and next minute his limbs started to tremble violently. Harry remembered with a sharp feeling of dread the transformation he had witnessed, seven years ago, in the grounds of Hogwarts. It had not been pleasant at all to watch, and now he wanted more than ever to look away and clasp his hands over his ears so as not to hear the werewolf's painful howls. Already Remus' face was growing longer, and dark fur appeared on his arms and face.

Then suddenly Harry realised something.

_I'm not transforming!_

He looked down at his hands: they were normal. Why wasn't he transforming? Had he somehow avoided infection? He heard a low growl and his head whipped up in panic: Remus had almost completely transformed and was fixing him with a horribly hungry glint in his yellow, bloodshot eyes.

_Oh no. _

Remus snarled and slowly moved towards him; Harry stumbled backwards, his hand feeling for his wand in the back pocket of his jeans, ready to draw it – and then he passed by a window. A ray of moonlight, filtering through a crack in the shutters, fell on his face.

At once, he felt something unclench in him. He was no longer anxious, or fearful. He was merely – expecting. The werewolf had stopped moving and was watching him with wide eyes.

Harry had heard the transformation was very painful; but oddly enough, he didn't feel any pain right now. He felt – good. Relaxed. Then, slowly, a feeling of power flooded through him, a strength he longed to use. He suddenly wanted to run, run, run, in order to use some of the energy that filled his whole being.

It didn't feel right to stand on his legs. He crouched and laid his hands on the floor in front of him. Now he was much more well-balanced. He lifted a hand, then the other; he advanced on all four – it didn't feel awkward or childish, it felt wonderfully_natural._ Then, before his very eyes, his fingers curled and his hands closed in fists. He stared at his hands, fascinated; smoothly, naturally, they transformed into paws. Soft paws covered in white fur. Beautiful paws.

His whole body was transforming now. He could feel warmth spread from his heart to his limbs, his muscles were hardening and harmoniously rolling under his skin as he walked on all four. His legs had transformed, too. When he turned his head to look behind him, he saw a narrow back covered in smooth, pure-white fur, and a tail raised in a proud panache.

He turned back to Remus. The werewolf seemed oddly small now; his snout barely reached Harry's shoulder. He was looking up at him in awe, his yellow eyes widened to their fullest extent. On his skull was still visible the scar he had got when Harry had thrown a stone at him, a month ago. His fur was sparse and dirty, and hung loosely from his bones. He looked starved and as shabby as Remus Lupin had ever looked in his old patched robes.

_I didn't lose control,_ thought Harry. _I still know who I am, where I am and why I'm here. But then, I'm not sure this is a normal transformation. For a start, I'm really big for a werewolf. I'm not any bigger than Remus under my human form, so why would I been so much bigger as a werewolf? And there's something else: since when are there _white _werewolves?_

Harry didn't have much time to think any further about his strange transformation. Remus was timidly nudging his side with his snout, emitting weird moaning sounds as he did so, as if he was asking him to do something. Harry looked down at him. There was pure adoration in the shabby werewolf's eyes. It was slightly unnerving.

Harry suddenly realised how much he needed to run. If he couldn't run, he would explode. He _had_ to find a way out of the Shrieking Shack. He had to run under the moonlight.

He noticed one of the windows didn't seem as solidly boarded as the others: the shutters were cracked, and one of them hung from his hinges. Harry walked up to the window, stood on his hind legs and rested his front paws on the shutter. Then he pushed. The shutters trembled but didn't open. Harry groaned and dropped to the floor again, took a few steps back and gathered speed before leaping on the window again.

He put all his weight against the shutters, and they wailed and gave way. The moonlight flooded in the Shrieking Shack, and Harry found himself facing a miserable garden, invaded with weeds. It was a clear, beautiful night, the moon was smiling at him from the black sky and the stars were winking invitingly.

Harry leapt from the windowsill and into the garden; he heard Remus' joyful yelp before he saw the other werewolf jump after him. They had soon crossed the garden and reached the fence surrounding the Shack. They slid through a gap that was wide enough for something even bigger than a werewolf to go through, for the Shrieking Shack and its surroundings had been completely neglected in the past years.

As soon as he was out of the garden, Harry broke into a run; it was wonderful. It was very similar to the emotions he had experienced while riding his first broomstick. He was running up the hill that rose behind the Shrieking Shack, and indeed he was running so fast he felt as if he was flying. The steely muscles were working perfectly under his skin, propelling him even faster, even higher, with such easiness he thought he would be able to jump and catch the moon in his mouth.

Harry reached the top of the hill and waited for his friend to join him. Remus finally made it too, his sides heaving as he panted, foam dripping from his open mouth. He seemed to have been tired by the run, whereas Harry was feeling stronger than ever. But Remus' eyes were no longer haunted and hungry, they were twinkling like the eyes of a young dog playing with his master. He looked up at Harry expectantly. Harry looked back at him, then took a few steps towards the other slope of the hill, without tearing his gaze from Remus' yellow eyes. Remus took the hint, and soon they were trotting side by side down the slope and towards the wood visible at the foot of the hill.

They had just entered the wood when Remus abruptly stopped. Harry paused as well, wondering what had caught Remus' attention, but a second later he knew what it was. He had smelled it – a delicious smell of warm and young flesh. Human flesh.

A vague hunger stirred into him, a longing for the taste of flesh and blood, but he quickly stifled it. However, Remus wasn't able to control himself in the same way; to Harry's horror he bolted forwards, the haunted glint back in his eyes.

Harry reacted a second too late. Remus was already well ahead of him, all his strengths having returned to him at the prospect of tasting human flesh. Harry ran behind him, following the grey tail fleeing in front of him and appearing here and there behind a tree or a bush. He caught up with him within minutes, ran alongside him for a few seconds before overtaking him and coming to an abrupt halt, blocking his way. Remus growled with frustration and tried to go round Harry, but Harry had played Quidditch for too long to be fooled by such a clumsy manoeuvre – though, admittedly, he had never before played Quidditch under the shape of a wolf. He quickly repositioned himself so that Remus couldn't go on.

Remus snarled dangerously and bared his teeth at Harry, his hunger exacerbated by the smell persisting in the air. Harry bared his teeth, too, and a low growl rolled in his throat, deeper and more threatening than Remus'. They started walking round each other, growling and glaring, chops curled over white, pointed fangs. It lasted a long time; the smell was growing fainter and fainter, and Remus was getting edgy. Once or twice he tried to get past Harry, but every time he found Harry in front of him, blocking his way.

At last the smell cleared, and the glint in Remus' eyes seemed to go off. He let himself fall to the ground and wailed softly. Harry himself couldn't help feeling a bit regretful; that flesh had smelled so delightful… He quickly pushed the thought away, and approached Remus cautiously. He nudged him with his snout; Remus lifted his ugly, scarred head and their eyes met. They stared at each other for a few seconds, before Remus, as if strengthened by Harry's gaze, got to his feet and looked at him expectantly.

Harry turned away and started running again. How good it was to be running. The wind carried the heavy scent of the warm grass and the fresher, wilder scent coming from the distant mountains. He slowed his pace so that Remus could follow him; and they ran, side by side, under the sky sparkling with stars.

Another hill was rising before them; the moon was smiling just above that hill. Harry suddenly felt the need to go up the hill, to reach the top and salute the moon. He didn't know where this need came from and he didn't question it either; he sped up, leaving Remus behind, and climbed the steep slope as fast as he could. He was sliding on patches of bare earth and stumbling on rare tufts of grass, but he was still running, his eyes fixed on the moon – perfectly round, perfectly serene.

He reached the top of the hill and was instantly bathed in the white and pure light of the moon. He stretched his neck as he pointed his snout at the skies, his mouth opened and a long cry flooded out of his throat. His cry was a pure, fierce and powerful note, it hung for a long time in the nightly air and the wind carried it over the mountains.

Harry screamed again. And Remus had joined him this time, and he too pointed his snout upwards and screamed with him. And their cries held none of the despair and sadness Harry had perceived in the cry of the pack of werewolves, a month ago. Tonight, they were screaming freedom.

Harry had never felt so free in his entire life.

When the echoes of their screams had finally died away, Harry and Remus walked down the hill again. At the foot of the hill was a little pool of greenish water, and now the moon was gazing at its own reflection in that humble mirror. Harry and Remus paused near that pool. The look Remus was sending Harry was almost questioning, and he waved his tail, inviting Harry to run home with him. But Harry lingered; he was wondering what sort of creature he had transformed into, for he was certainly not an ordinary werewolf. And so he cautiously walked to the pool of water and gazed at the glistening surface.

The water showed him the image of a wolf, of a gigantic size; neither the snout nor the tail bore the characteristic marks of a werewolf – he was a wolf, a real wolf, only much bigger than ordinary wolves. And his fur was snow white, completely spotless, from his paws to the tip of his long pointed ears. His white tail was proudly curved over his back.

And his eyes were green.

Harry lowered his head until his snout was only inches away from the liquid surface. His eyes were still of that extraordinary shade of green that he had inherited from his mother. That small patch of such a vivid colour in the white face was a startling sight.

Remus almost yapped behind him with impatience. Harry looked away from his reflection and followed the werewolf as he led the way back through the wood, to the hill towering over the Shrieking Shack. Harry took the lead then; the morning was perhaps an hour away, it was time they should go back to the Shack.

Harry and Remus climbed up the hill, then went down it again; they were going at a slow pace, enjoying their last moments of freedom. They slid through the gap in the fence enclosing the neglected garden as the blemish light of dawn crept in the valley, and jumped into the Shack by the still open window.

After about twenty minutes of waiting, Remus let out a groan of pain and shuddered as he started to transform back into his human form. Harry was pacing nervously like a wild beast in a cage.

Remus was panting with pain as his fur slowly disappeared, as his face shrank and as his limbs recovered their normal shape and size. And then suddenly Harry shivered; and the feeling of infinite power and strength seemed to be drained out of him. He slumped onto the floor and lay there, a great fatigue spreading in his limbs. He saw through half-closed eyes his paws becoming hands again, and as the cold took hold of the rest of his body, he knew he was a man again.

The two men stayed silent and motionless for a long moment. Then Harry pushed himself off the floor with shaky arms and sat up. He took off his glasses in a mechanical gesture and cleaned them with a corner of the old shirt he had been wearing. When he put them back on, he found Remus staring at him strangely.

"I remember everything," said Remus brusquely. "I was almost myself. Almost like when James and Sirius and Peter were with me. I remember we ran, I remember you prevented me from hunting down someone, I remember we bawled at the moon."

He paused, his eyes boring into Harry's.

"I remember what you looked like," he whispered.

Harry just looked back at him, not knowing what to say. Remus slowly shook his head, and he wore an expression of bewilderment mixed, oddly enough, with admiration and even wonderment.

"I don't know what you are, Harry," he said at last softly. "But you're not a werewolf."


	7. The Questions

**Chapter Seven: The Questions  
**

Hermione had closed her eyes and was pressing on her temples with the tips of her fingers, as if she wanted to prevent her head from vibrating.

"Is bringing us shocking pieces of information about yourself becoming a habit?" she asked slowly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Is it my fault if all those things happen to me?" he said. "I would've thought the pair of you had become accustomed to this ability of mine by now."

"Yes, but _this_ is going against every rule of witchcraft and wizardry!" Hermione burst out; and with those words she leapt to her feet and began pacing in her living room, where Harry and Ron had joined her in the early hours of the morning.

"Oh, I've never really followed the rules, have I?" Harry pointed out with a shrug.

"Don't you pretend you don't understand!" snapped Hermione. "I'm not talking about stupid school rules! I'm talking about universal rules, _laws_ like laws of Physics! Something everyone abides to! What happened to you," she added, coming to an abrupt halt in front of Harry with her hands on her hips, "is both illogical _and_ utterly impossible!"

"Yet it happened," said Harry tiredly. "Remus could confirm it if you like – I've never seen him so overexcited."

"Neither you nor Remus were in your right mind when you saw – whatever you saw!" exclaimed Hermione in something close to desperation. "I guess something weird happened, but how far can we trust a transformed werewolf's memory? What's more, I'm going to say it again: it. Doesn't. Make. Sense. You were bitten by a werewolf. You ought to be a _regular_ werewolf."

Harry turned to Ron. "What d'you think?"

Ron was sprawled in an armchair and was staring at the floor with a slightly dizzy expression, as if he had received something very heavy on the top of his head. At Harry's question, he looked up and shrugged one shoulder.

"Oh, you know… I'm not asking anymore questions," he said good-naturedly, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender.

Hermione let out a frustrated exclamation.

"Thanks for your help, both of you," she barked. She stalked across the living room and crouched beside an old desk, whose many drawers were so full that they couldn't close completely; scrolls of parchment and notes were sticking out of them.

Hermione forcefully tugged on a drawer, which finally burst out of the desk and fell to the floor. Hermione heaved an exasperated sigh but didn't take the time to put the drawer back in the desk. She chose several sheets of blank parchment and a quill and straightened up.

"_This_calls for method and tidiness," she announced with a disdainful look in Harry and Ron's direction. With those words, she walked to the table standing in the middle of the living room and spread the sheets of parchment on the wooden surface.

"So," she began. "Let's list all the mysteries we have to solve. Number one, Harry?"

Harry scratched his head. "Er, I don't know… Where to start? My permanent insomnia, my inability to feel anything, the fact that I seem to have become a sort of Animagus rather than a werewolf, the behaviour of the trees in the Forbidden Forest, the mystery around Voldemort's death, er –"

"Okay, let's put all this into categories," said Hermione hastily, looking slightly unsettled.

She dipped the tip of her quill into a bottle of black ink and began scribbling on the top of a sheet of parchment, muttering as she wrote: "Strange… abilities…"

"There!" She underlined the title and turned to Harry. "So, a list of your strange abilities?"

"From the very beginning?" asked Ron with a grin. "Merlin, I hope you have a few hours to spare then, Hermione. Should we start with Parseltongue or is there something even before that o–"

"For God's sake, Ron!" snapped Hermione. "I am talking about the abilities we've been unable to explain so far –"

"I know, I know," said Ron with a hint of impatience. "I was merely trying to relax the atmosphere."

"If you think your stupid jokes –"

"Back to the problem at hand!" Harry chanted in a ringing voice, interrupting what suspiciously sounded like one of those pointless and violent arguments that were Ron and Hermione's speciality.

"All right." Hermione allowed herself to glare at Ron for a few seconds before directing her attention back to Harry. "So, Harry?"

Harry ensconced himself in his armchair and half-closed his eyes as he tried to clear up his memories.

"I think the first one is the loss of sleep," he answered slowly at last. "It occurred in the Forest, after the Lestranges and Nott's deaths."

"Remember the date?"

"Easy. The day the Death Eaters took Hogwarts."

A shadow went over Ron's face at these words, and Hermione froze in the gesture of writing down the date. Both had horrible memories of that day, though nothing in the like of Harry's. They had all witnessed murders and torture – many students Hermione had tutored and knew very well had died that day, and of course, they had all seen, horrified, Percy Weasley's atrocious fate.

Poor Percy had returned to Hogwarts as a temporary Arithmancy teacher – on Scrimgeour's orders, they had heard – and had been caught by the Death Eaters during the battle… His self-proclaimed allegiance to the Ministry, as well as his family name, which was known to be associated with Dumbledore's, had stimulated the Death Eaters' creativity when they had decided to kill him. They had made his blood boil.

"Fine," croaked Hermione, blinking furiously as she finally wrote down the date. "Insomnia. Probable cause: the four Cruciatus curses. Right?"

"…Right," Harry answered uncertainly.

Hermione began scratching her chin with the pointed tip of the quill, unknowingly leaving great inky lines on her skin as she furrowed her brow, apparently deep in thoughts.

"I can see an explanation for that one," she said at last slowly. "But I'm surprised the Healer you're seeing hasn't thought of it first… Yet it seems logical… But then, if he's completely opposed to Muggle tactics and ways of thinking… It could have escaped him…"

Ron and Harry exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised. Then Ron, against Harry's best judgement, interrupted loudly Hermione's muttering.

"That's absolutely wonderful, Hermione. Now I understand everything. However, I have a tiny little question. Why can't you explain yourself properly when you've got an idea, instead of mumbling incoherent bits of sentences?"

Hermione heaved an impatient sigh and spun her chair around so that she was facing Harry and Ron.

"Harry, you didn't go mad with the pain," she said brusquely. "That's another strange fact. You told us you had been protected from madness by… by the sound of the wind, is that it?"

"By the trees," corrected Harry, annoyed at Hermione's way of beating around the bush. "The _trees _were singing and their song kept me sane."

Ron muttered something about Hagrid breeding far too many weird creatures in that Forest. Harry ignored him and went on:

"What are you aiming at exactly, Hermione? Do you think there is a link between the fact I didn't go mad and the loss of sleep?"

"Well, that's a possibility," Hermione answered with a frown. "Think about it. You kept your sanity, but on the other hand you lost another ability, one that victims of the Cruciatus Curse aren't supposed to lose. It's as if the blow had been deflected, and instead of hitting its usual target, it hit another part of you."

"Is that only _possible?_" said Ron, scepticism written all across his face.

"Yes, it could be!" Hermione stood up, and Harry noticed that her face was shining with excitation, just as it used to when she talked about SPEW or the DA, at Hogwarts. She began to pace in front of them again, apparently too restless to stay still. "Look, do you remember the Brain Room in the Department of Mysteries?" she asked decidedly.

"Oh yes, _I_ do," answered Ron bitterly. He absentmindedly rubbed his forearms, where could still be seen the scars left by the swirling thoughts that had coiled up around him, four years ago, in the room Hermione was referring to.

"Well, that's where I've been working these past months," Hermione explained feverishly. "I'm working on how the brain works, of course, but also how it can be affected by curses –"

"Are you sure you're supposed to tell us all this?" Ron asked, cutting across her. "You're an Unspeakable trainee –"

"_Do_ quit interrupting me, Ron, it's hard enough as it is!" barked Hermione without even sparing him a glance. Ron sank back into his armchair, looking sulky.

"Anyway, I've been working in that room," Hermione went on as if Ron hadn't spoken at all. "The human brain is an extremely powerful machine, but it's also very fragile. The Cruciatus Curse, for instance, is supposed to act _at first_ on one part of it – the neurones controlling the pain stimuli – but when the curse becomes too intense or lasts too long, other parts of the brain are destroyed as well. Whoever invented that curse knew perfectly well what they were doing: after inflicting on the victim as much pain as possible, the Cruciatus Curse is _meant_ to attack the most subtle parts of the brain. Namely, the parts responsible for coherent thinking, and dreaming, and – everything that makes us different from animals! The curse is _not_ supposed to act on essential biological functions, such as the ability to breathe, or digest…"

"…or sleep," Harry completed.

"Well… yes," agreed Hermione, coming to a halt in front of him. "That's what makes me think the two things are linked. That – _song of the trees _seems to have acted as a shield from the degrading effects of the Cruciatus Curses, and as it couldn't ward off the blow completely, it deflected it to another part of your brain. Precisely the one controlling the ability to sleep, the _Somatosensory Cortex_."

Harry nodded. It made sense – the low, soothing song filling his ears and dispersing the fog that had started to drown his coherent thoughts… And indeed, it had been at that very moment that he had found himself incapable to sleep.

"How can we verify that?" he asked. "We need to be sure…"

Hermione started to scratch her chin with her quill again, hesitation replacing the excitement that had been illuminating her face.

"You'll have to convince your Healer to let you go to a Muggle Hospital and have your brain scanned," she said slowly. "Er… do you think he will accept?"

Harry sighed. "I'll have to try," he answered doubtfully. "I'm almost sure he will be horribly vexed, though… And someone will have to have the Memory Charms ready, in case those Muggle doctors discover weird things in my head."

"I can arrange that, I guess," said Ron with a shrug. "I have one friend or two in my Department, so even if I'm not available, someone else from the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad should be able to do it."

"Excellent," said Hermione briskly, clasping her hands together. "We'll not worry anymore about the insomnia for the time being. Next… oddity, Harry? You still can't feel anything, can you?"

Harry shook his head. "But I more or less know the origin of that particular symptom," he said. "Healer Parletoo and I have already talked about it. It's the abrupt loss of all my powers, then the recovery, that caused what he called the 'trauma'."

Hermione looked quite sceptical, but she wrote a few lines on her parchment without making any comment.

"So… We don't have to worry about that either… Oh, just for further notice, when did that happen?"

"The day Voldemort died," answered Harry in a dull tone.

Hermione nodded and added a note on her parchment. "Fine," she announced in a ringing voice. "I think that's all for your special abilities; at least, those you earned during the war."

"Speaking of the war," Ron suddenly interjected, "write that down: Try to find out who was the scumbag who shot at Harry the fourth Cruciatus Curse; you know, the curse that was lifted only after V-Voldemort's death. If I remember correctly, the first three curses were from Lestrange, his wife, and Nott, but we still don't know the fourth Death Eater's name."

"That's not nearly as important as –" began Harry, but Ron cut across him.

"Of course, that's not important at all to find the piece of filth who made you go through hell for two whole months," he said sarcastically. "C'mon, Harry, there is a limit to forgiveness!"

Harry raised both hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. Forget I ever said anything."

There was a few seconds' silence as Hermione scribbled on a fresh sheet of parchment. She finally straightened up and ran a tired hand through her bushy hair, unaware that the quill she was still holding left a black and wet trail on her cheek.

"So," she said. "We have the 'Strange Abilities' parchment, but apparently we are very close to solving both problems. Next, we have the 'Mysterious Opponent' parchment, namely the caster of the fourth curse, or the Fourth Torturer, as I wrote it. Now, the 'Forbidden Forest' parchment. I'm listening, Harry."

Harry sighed and let his head fall backwards, his eyes closed, as he tried to remember the exact details of his brief stay in the Forest. He didn't like lingering on that memory: even after two years, the thought of the tall trees of the core of the Forest was blood-chilling. That place attracted him and scared him at the same time. A part of him was longing to hear the soothing, soft song again, to sit at the foot of the tall trees and rest there in the thick grass, bathed in the soft green light; and the rest of him could barely bear the memory of the loathing literally oozing from every crack of the bark of the trees, and the swift, lethal movements of the branches that had throttled Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Well… To begin with the most obvious," he started with some difficulty, "the trees in the old core of the Forest are alive… They're singing, and moving their branches on their own volition… And they hate us…"

"Alive…" repeated Hermione thoughtfully. "Mmmh… It makes me think of dryads, you know, those tree-spirits in Muggle mythology… Is there any dryads in the wizarding world, I wonder?"

Ron frowned and began to scratch his head, screwing up his face like he used to at Hogwarts, when Hermione was testing him before an exam.

"I don't think so," Ron said slowly at last, looking thoroughly unconvinced. "There may have been at a time, though… Many species disappeared in wizardkind history. Maybe a colony of dryads has survived in the very core of the Forbidden Forest."

"The hatred isn't limited to the trees in the centre of the Forest," Harry pointed out. "Hagrid told me the whole Forest hates wizards. But the hatred is stronger in the centre, and it all comes from there in the first place."

Hermione began to scribble furiously on her parchment. "Trees… Alive… Dryads?… Hate wizards… Why wizards, though?" she suddenly asked as she raised her head again to send Harry a perplexed look. "Isn't this Forest part of the oldest school of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the world? Shouldn't it be accustomed to wizards?"

"Not a valuable argument," yawned Ron. "I've grown accustomed to Slytherins after seven years of living in the same castle, and I still can't stand the smell of them."

Harry laughed at this, and Hermione rolled her eyes, though a small smile was tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Come on, boys, let's stay concentrated," she said in a reproving tone. "Mmmh… Maybe the Forest existed even before Hogwarts was founded," she went on slowly, the slight crease between her brows betraying her confusion. "Maybe it was the home of creatures who didn't like wizards, which would explain why it's so hostile to wizards while it provides a home for centaurs, who aren't too fond of our kind… But it would be odd that the four most powerful wizards of the Middle-Ages should choose a place exuding hatred for their own kind, in order to build a school for young magical children…"

Hermione dropped her voice to unintelligible mutters; Ron and Harry watched her in slight perplexity as she mumbled on, distractedly chewing on her thumbnail and twisting a strand of her bushy hair in the fingers of her other hand. After a whole minute of this, Ron leant towards Harry and muttered in his ear:

"Fascinating to see a brain at work, isn't it?"

"Yeah," agreed Harry in an equally low voice. "I can almost see the smoke coming out of her ears."

Ron snorted with laughter, but he quickly quietened when Harry elbowed him in the ribs: Hermione had finally stopped muttering, and from the determined look on her face, Harry could tell she had come to a decision.

"I'll reread _Hogwarts: a History,_ then," she concluded.

"For a change," muttered Ron to Harry from the corner of his mouth. Harry bit his lip to prevent himself from grinning.

"I heard that," snapped Hermione. "And Harry, do stop smiling stupidly. Do you have anything else to add about that Forest?"

"No… Yes," said suddenly Harry, straightening up in his armchair as he abruptly remembered something. "There's this weird thing Magorian the centaur told me last month… Wait, what was it…? Oh yes – 'But do you still consider yourself as a wizard? The centaurs doubt you are so. The Forest thinks you are not.'"

A stunned silence followed these words. Hermione's quill had frozen halfway to her chin and Ron was gaping at Harry, obviously at a complete loss of words.

"Wait a minute," said Ron at last. "Those star-gazers, who are never able of uttering a comprehensible sentence, have decided my best mate isn't a wizard? And what are you supposed to be, exactly? A _tree in disguise?_"

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be," said Harry. "But the fact remains that the trees hate all wizards, except for me. They let me in. I could feel their hatred, but it wasn't directed to _me._ And they did save me from insanity. As if they had felt I was from – a different kind…"

"Or," Ron exclaimed suddenly, with the excited expression of someone who has finally found the answer to a difficult problem, "maybe they were only opposed to pure-blood wizards – or to wizards bearing the Dark Mark! The people they killed were Death Eaters after all!"

"Hagrid told me he could feel the trees hated _him,_ too," Harry said dully. "And the day Hagrid gets a Dark Mark, Hermione will marry Malfoy."

Hermione emitted a disgusted noise. "Thanks for the mental image, Harry," she shot at him. "I really didn't need it… So, what should I write? The centaurs think you're not a wizard, and that's why you weren't killed by the trees; right?"

Harry nodded as he inwardly marvelled at how complicated the situation had become. Hermione scribbled a few lines with impressive rapidity – the parchment even let out a squeak of protest she completely ignored.

"Anything else?"

Ron groaned. "I hope not," he grumbled. "I like that Forest less and less every minute."

"No," said Harry. "I think that's all – wait."

Ron gave a kind of desperate moan and sank lower in his seat. "Great, what did those woody and leafy nutters do this time?" he asked mournfully.

"They defeated Voldemort."

Silence.

"Excuse me?" asked Hermione with a very dazed expression, as if she had been clubbed on the head. "Since when was Voldemort defeated by a Forest?"

Harry shook his head. "I didn't tell anybody about this. I can't really explain it… The fact remains that while Voldemort and I were wrestling, we found ourselves at the edge of the Forest. He… Tom… succeeded in escaping and he tried to lose me in the Forest… And we got near the old core. That's where it happened…

"The trees started singing again. It was not soft and soothing like the first time, it was much louder and fiercer, like a war song. It was – the most terrifying thing I had ever heard. We stopped fighting. I don't know what happened to Voldemort… I was caught up in the song and it was as if my heart was being ripped out of my chest. I – struggled to survive. And when it all stopped, I was still alive, but Voldemort was dead. He hadn't made it through."

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, clearly trying to take in Harry's new piece of information. Then, opening her eyes again, she cast a sad look at her parchment, which was already covered in her narrow handwriting. She turned it over and wrote a tiny note at the back of it.

"Voldemort, war song," she said rather dryly as she wrote. "That should be enough. I'm tired of writing novels."

She sighed noisily and pulled a hand through her hair again. Harry's eye was caught by the three parchments spread in front of her, covered in shining black ink. His head was swimming; so many unanswered questions… So many unsolved mysteries…

Ron's stomach grumbled loudly, pulling Harry out of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch: it was ten in the morning, and he hadn't had any breakfast; come to think of it, he hadn't had any dinner the previous night either. His insensibility prevented him from feeling hunger; it was quite handy when he had to skip a meal for work's sake, but it was a serious inconvenient nevertheless. More than once, in the months following Voldemort's death, he had fainted for lack of food, having simply forgotten to eat. He hoped Hermione had something to eat in her kitchen…

"Everything comes back to that Forest," Hermione cried out, so suddenly that Harry and Ron jumped. "Everything! From your weird symptoms to Voldemort's death, everything is related to those trees in some twisted way! And since the trees think –" She paused with a grimace of disdain at the thought of thinking plants. "Since they_think_ you're different from the other wizards… Then I wouldn't be surprised if that Forest had something to do with your unusual reaction to the werewolf's bite as well!"

"Oh yeah, I had almost forgotten that," said Ron miserably. "Almost. Remind me of what you transformed into?"

"A great white wolf, bigger than the average werewolf, with green eyes," Harry said in a toneless voice. "And I was able to control myself."

Ron pressed the heels of his hands on his eyes, as if he wanted to push them back into his skull.

"This is just too – Hey!" He abruptly straightened up, his eyes open wide in sudden realisation. "A werewolf controlling itself? Doesn't it sound a lot like Luna's raving, yesterday? You know, about powerful werewolves?"

Hermione scoffed. "Ron, _please._ If I remember correctly, Luna's werewolves were able to – what was it? _Change the course of the wind_ by howling at the moon, and probably tap-dance as well. As far as I know, Harry didn't have control over the wind, did you, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. No, the wind hadn't changed when he had bawled at the moon. But yet, Luna's theory was interesting…

"I'll ask her about tap-dancing werewolves, if you really want me to, Harry," said Hermione impatiently. She must have seen the uncertainty on his face. She took her quill again and scribbled down a few lines on a fresh piece of parchment, then planted her quill back into the inkpot and started rubbing her hand, as if it was sore from the constant writing.

"That Forest," she said again decidedly; Harry closed his eyes in despair. He had hoped she would drop that subject. A noisy sigh on his left told him Ron had had the same hope.

"I repeat, _that Forest,_" Hermione resumed with annoyance, "is the key of the whole mystery. The trees recognise Harry, as if he was different; hence their behaviour when Harry got hit by the four-way Cruciatus Curse: they protected him and offered him a shelter. This matches with that declaration of Magorian's, according to which Harry isn't a wizard – or at least, not completely. And this declaration itself explains why Harry didn't react normally to the werewolf's bite: as he's not a normal wizard, he can't react like one."

"Wait, are _you_ saying that Harry is a kind of mutant as well?" asked Ron incredulously.

Hermione looked a bit sheepish. "I'm sorry," she said. "But… but this way, it all fits…"

"That's all right," said Harry hastily. "So, what do you suggest?"

Hermione looked down at the parchments again and ran her finger down the long list she had written, as if wanting to gather her thoughts one last time before answering. Ron rolled his eyes and exclaimed exasperatedly:

"Here's an idea: why don't we just – cut off all those trees and make a huge bonfire with them? And roast the centaurs on it, while we're at it?"

"Tempting," commented Hermione grimly, while Harry laughed at Ron's suggestion. "But this way we'll never find out the truth. The mysteries we listed are now down to two: what is in that Forest? And, who is Harry exactly?"

"Or rather, _what_ am I exactly?" said Harry quietly.

Hermione and Ron fell silent. Outside, the sun was now high in the sky and they could all hear the wind caressing the building in which Hermione lived – the noises of the street were muffled by sophisticated Double Gazing Spells. Harry thought he caught a glimpse of a tuft of bright green feathers on the windowsill, but in a split second it had disappeared. Probably a strange bird that had suddenly taken off…

"All right, who wants a breakfast?" said Ron loudly. "I could eat McGonagall. And without salt."

"A bit hard to chew," Harry pointed out with a grin. "A regular breakfast would be fine for me."

"Okay, let's see what our Hermione has in her kitchen. Brace yourself, Harry, last time it was a piece of cheese and a crust of bread."

Ron dodged the curse Hermione sent him and the three of them went into the kitchen, Hermione protesting, Ron laughing and Harry smiling from one ear to the other, all thoughts of the strange Forbidden Forest momentarily forgotten.

None of them saw the strange female head peering into the room by the open window. None of them saw the woman's silhouette hauling herself up on the windowsill, carrying on her back a bow and a quiver full of arrows, which were covered at their extremities with bright green feathers. None of them heard the woman jump into the room, creep up to the table and bend over the parchments covered in shining black ink.

She was gone when they went back in the living room.

--------------

"So, if I understand well," said Ron as the three of them walked down the stairs leading them back to the courtyard, "this glorious sunlit Sunday, that I could have spent in my bed with a cool drink or two, will be spent gathering information about weird wolves and creepy trees. I'm supposed to ask around if there used to be _dryads_ at a time in the wizarding world – honestly, you couldn't have given me a stupidest question, Hermione…"

"Look who's complaining," said Hermione, raising her eyes to the heavens. "_I _am on my way to ask Luna Lovegood about tap-dancing wolves, remember?'

"And personally, I'd rather ask about dryads or imaginary wolves than be stuck with Healer Parletoo for another three-hours-long consultation," mumbled Harry, who could feel a migraine coming at the very thought.

"Won't he be annoyed at you for coming to see him when it's the weekend?" asked Hermione uncertainly. "Healers work hard all week, you know… Disturbing them on a Sunday afternoon…"

"Oh no, he won't be bothered," said Harry gloomily. "He will take that as a treat. Believe me."

Hermione unlocked the door at the bottom of the staircase, and paused on the threshold to look up at him gravely.

"Try to gather as much information from him as possible," she said. "But do your best not to reveal too much. From what you said, he sounds like a talkative person."

"Biggest understatement of the century," agreed Harry. "I got the point; but it won't be easy, especially if I have to ask him to let me have my brain scanned in a Muggle hospital. _That's_ when he will be annoyed."

They had just reached the point where they could Apparate, behind the bins shed, hidden from Muggle eyes. Hermione fastened her cloak around her shoulders, then turned around to face Harry again.

"Keep that bit until the end of the consultation, then," said Hermione with a smile.

She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

"Oh yes – before you do anything else, shower and shave, please," she added with a short laugh. "I'll go and buy a few things so that the three of us can have dinner at my place tonight, then I'm off to see Luna. See you! Bye Ron," she said more softly. And reaching up, she put her arms around Ron's neck and kissed him quickly.

A second later, she had Disapparated with a small pop.

Harry straightened his cloak and prepared to Disapparate as well.

"See you, Ron," he said quickly.

Ron didn't answer. Harry glanced back at him: he was staring at the point where Hermione had stood seconds before, mouth hanging open in an expression of puzzlement. Harry succeeded in containing his laughter as he snapped his fingers under Ron's nose, but he couldn't hold back a wide grin when Ron jumped comically and blinked several times.

"Welcome back on earth," said Harry pleasantly.

"Oh… yeah… hum…" mumbled Ron, who still looked a bit dizzy. "Er… okay."

"I understand why you haven't proposed to her yet, if you're reacting this way every time she's kissing you," Harry said before he could stop himself. "Could be dangerous to live with her."

Ron turned beet red.

"Not going to start with that, too, are you?" he muttered, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

"Sorry," said Harry quickly. "That's none of my business…"

"That's not what I meant," said Ron tiredly. "It's just… I'm afraid that, if I ever – you know – marry Hermione…" He paused and became very interested in the laces of his right shoe. Harry found himself gazing intently at the overfull bins standing at a few feet from their Apparition point; why had he said that, _why?_

"Well, if I – do that," Ron went on, "I'm afraid I'll do it only because it was what everyone expects me to do… and not what I really want to do… See what I mean?"

Harry cleared his throat. "More or less," he mumbled.

There was a few seconds' silence.

"So… what would you advise me to do?"

Harry's eyes snapped back to Ron in horror.

"Excuse me?" Harry choked out.

"Well… You're my best friend, you know me, you know Hermione," said Ron, shifting uneasily under Harry's bewildered stare. "If someone can give us a piece of advice, then it's you… So, should I ask her?"

Harry scratched his chin, horribly embarrassed. "I'm not – Ron, in that area, every experience I had was a complete disaster… I'm not very well-placed to give you any advice…"

"Do you really picture me going to ask _Bill_ for a piece of advice?" asked Ron miserably. "Or worse still – _Dad?"_

"No…"

"So?" urged Ron.

Harry pulled an unsteady hand through his hair. He vaguely wondered if he could Disapparate right now, without warning, then pretend later it had been an accident – but Ron's face, though still of a deep shade of red, was now shining with hope; and Harry felt compelled to say something.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "Do you want to live with her? …To wake up next to her every morning, to listen to her frantic muttering every time she thinks she forgot something very important, to be asked if you like better the red lipstick or the pink one, to hear about how the pair of you should buy three or four house-elves and set them free… and to… become all bald and… white-haired with her… and have a lot of screaming Weasleys with bushy hair and big front teeth?"

Harry said the last part as fast as possible, and the thought of an 'accidental' Disapparition crossed his mind once more. To his great surprise, however, Ron's face had now split into the widest smile Harry had ever seen, and he was staring into space as if contemplating a blissful future.

"…I take that as a yes," said finally Harry, resisting the urge to snap his fingers under Ron's nose once more.

Ron was still smiling.

"Okay, hum… I guess you have the answer to your question… I'll be going, then," said Harry, almost stumbling over his own words in his haste to put an end to this extremely uncomfortable moment. "See you."

Harry heard Ron's joyful "Thanks, mate!" just before Disapparating, and he felt his own lips stretching into a rather silly grin as he was forced into oppressive darkness.

In the deserted courtyard, Ron did a kind of pirouette with a yell of joy; and he walked away, the wide grin still attached to his lips.

In the shadows of a skinny tree growing in a corner of the courtyard, a long-haired, slender figure took a thin arrow between two fingers and set it in her bow. The bowstring was drawn back further and further; the bright green feathers were quivering in the light breeze, and the lethal head of the arrow was directly pointed at Ron's retreating back, between the shoulder blades.

_Tang!_

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**A/N2: Many thanks to Hamm On Wry, from MugglenetFanFiction, for leaving me a detailed review about the possible reasons for Harry's inability to sleep (_Chapter Four: Nocturnal Stroll_). I shamelessly exploited his review in this chapter. **


	8. Interlude

**Interlude**

DAILY PROPHET, 28 August 2000

_You-Know-Who's Followers Seeking Revenge?_

_Two years after the Dark Lord's downfall, and despite the Ministry's repeated assurances that all of You-Know-Who's known followers are either dead or locked away in the prison of Azkaban, three unexplained attacks raise again the fears and doubts of the magical community. The three attacks took place simultaneously on Saturday morning; Ronald Weasley, of the Accidental Magic Reversal Department, Luna Lovegood, co-owner of the independent monthly the '_Quibbler'_, and Merlin Parletoo, Head Healer of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Diseases and Injuries, were all shot in the back with what appear to be poisonous arrows. While the latter personally tended to most of the people severely wounded by You-Know-Who and his followers, and even had Harry Potter himself among his patients, Weasley and Lovegood played important parts in the last war and were known to be close friends of Potter's. In such conditions, it's hard not to think of a Death Eater attack. (…)_

_The three victims, in critical condition, were transported to St Mungo's; the Healer in charge, Augustus Revol, asserted that an antidote to the poison that was used against them should be found shortly. _

DAILY PROPHET, 15 September 2000

_Poisonous Attack: the Healers Mystified_

_The victims of the attack that took place on the 26 August are still in a deep coma, two weeks after they were shot with poisonous arrows. No antidote was found in spite of the Healers' and Potions Masters' best efforts. This unknown substance seems to have plunged its victims in a catatonic state; despite having their eyes open, they can't recognise anybody and don't react to their surroundings, and they keep muttering nonsense under their breaths. Questioned by our reporter Miranda Backston, Harry Potter, whose ties with all three victims are widely known, has refused to make any comment, instead advising our reporter to "get out of (his) way, unless (she had) suicidal tendencies." Unspeakable Hermione Granger, another close friend of two of the three victims, was contacted by our reporter Brandon Morley who received a similar — if less aggressive — answer. (…)_

DAILY PROPHET, 1st November 2000

_Harry Potter falls into coma_

_Yesterday, nineteen years exactly after the murder of James and Lily Potter and the Dark Lord's first downfall, Harry Potter was celebrating Halloween at the Weasley house when he abruptly fell to the floor, unconscious. He was carried over to St Mungo's in emergency, and as we write this no Healer has yet been able to confirm that he would survive. (…)_

DAILY PROPHET, 3 November 2000

_The-Boy-Who-Lived Has Survived Again_

_Harry Potter has regained consciousness and his life is no longer in danger, Healer Revol said. However, he is kept under observation and won't be able to resume his professional activities before a few weeks at least. (…)_

DAILY PROPHET, 17 December 2000

_Harry Potter is out of hospital_

_The Auror, after almost seven weeks spent at St Mungo's, is finally back at the Ministry. Contacted by reporter Morley, he refused to give a full interview, and merely said, "I was ill, now I'm back to work. That's it." (…)_

DAILY PROPHET, 25 February 2001

_The _Quibbler_will no longer be published_

_The director of the independent monthly the _Quibbler_, Ebenezar Lovegood, says in the editorial of February's edition that he is leaving England with the intention of going after a fabled animal, the optical nerves of which would contain an antidote supposedly even more powerful than bezoars. Lovegood's goal, although he made no mention of it, is probably to find a cure for his daughter, Luna, who was shot six months ago with a poisonous arrow and is still in a coma. We wish our esteemed colleague much luck in this perilous quest._

DAILY PROPHET, 20 June 2001

_A hot summer ahead_

_This summer will be particularly dry and hot! Remember never to leave your little ones unprotected under the sun! Read page 2: Which Sun Potion Should I Choose? by Claudia Ramirez._

DAILY PROPHET, 5 September 2001

_Young Transfiguration Teacher appointed at Hogwarts_

_He's young, handsome and athletic. But does the new Transfiguration teacher have what it takes to succeed Minerva McGonagall, who until last June held concurrently both her post as Headmistress and the position of Transfiguration teacher, for lack of suitable candidates? Our analysis on page 3._


	9. Changing

**A/N: Thanks for the unexpected amount of reviews I got for last chapter.**

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**Chapter Eight: Changing**

**October 2001 -- 14 months after the attack on Ronald Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Healer Parletoo **

Professor McGonagall glared down at the student standing in front of her desk. The boy, after a feeble attempt to hold her gaze, finally blushed and looked down. Professor McGonagall gave an imperious nod of approval. No Hogwarts student stood up to her. The last boy who had had the nerve to do so had been a genius at Transfiguration, and a Marauder to boot; hence the exception. But exceptions are meant to stay single. 

"I should give you two weeks' detention," she said coldly.

The boy's head jerked up, his eyes widened in horror.

"But Professor—"

"And that's exactly what I'm going to do," she went on, so sharply the boy fell silent at once and seemed to shrink a little on the spot. "You'll start your detentions with Professor Snape, Saturday at eight in the evening."

The boy visibly relaxed and even ventured a timid smile.

"Right after the Quidditch match, Professor?" he asked hesitantly.

"Of course," Professor McGonagall snapped—she hated when students guessed the reason hiding behind her decisions. "That is, if your team is able to end the match before the time of your detention! And in the meantime, I suggest you use your free evenings until Saturday to train extra hard."

The boy's grin grew wider.

"Don't worry, Professor," he said confidently. "We'll flatten Slytherin."

Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed dangerously at these words. Merlin, was the boy thick. If he hadn't been a good Seeker—not outstanding, but a really good player all the same—she would certainly not have encouraged his Head of House to pick him as Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

"Are you suggesting I am favouring a team over another, Scrubb?" she asked in a clipped voice.

"N-not at all, Professor, I just thought—"

"Then you thought wrong. You may go now, Scrubb."

Scrubb's weak mumbles died away and he gladly walked out of the Headmistress's office, looking as if he was trying very hard not to run as fast as his legs would carry him.

Professor McGonagall lay back in her armchair with a sigh. Her taking over the position of Headmistress hadn't diminished in the least the competition still existing between her and Severus Snape. The new Head of Gryffindor House was good as far as his teaching job was concerned, but he didn't weight an ounce when it came to dealing with the Potions Master; so much so that Gryffindors still came to her whenever they had problems, even though she hadn't been Head of their house for years.

She was almost ashamed of how badly she wanted Gryffindor to win the Quidditch Cup. The previous year, when the new Head of Gryffindor had handed it over to Snape with a gracious smile on his face, she had been inwardly boiling with frustration. She hoped Scrubb would not disappoint her; he was a decent player, but nothing in the like of Charlie Weasley, or James and Harry Potter.

She couldn't but smile when thinking of the latter's ardour at Quidditch, in his Hogwarts years. Seeing Harry Potter act so passionate in a futile matter such as a Quidditch match, when he already had the weight of the wizarding community on his shoulders, had been reassuring to her. It had been the very few moments in his late years at Hogwarts when he had behaved like a teenage boy.

Of course, it had changed since. Drastically.

A knot seemed to tighten in her chest at the thought of him. She was losing him, she could tell. They were all losing him. And the worst was that she seemed to be the only one to be aware of that.

Minerva McGonagall leaned forward, her elbows resting on her desk, and briefly buried her face in her long, dry hands.

"Something on your mind, Minerva?"

Albus Dumbledore's cheerful voice rang through the office, and it seemed to Professor McGonagall that the walls shivered slightly at the sound of this voice—as if they could still remember a time when it didn't come from a portrait, but from one of the greatest wizards alive. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had what it took to be Headmistress of Hogwarts—Dumbledore's memory was still so present in everybody's mind.

"Yes," she answered rather briskly, while dismissing with an irritated wave the depressed thoughts running through her mind. "I'm worried about the boy."

There was a collective sigh from the portraits; some sounded weary, other annoyed, and a majority simply held their breaths. They all knew who_the boy _was. Even though the Auror who now worked at the Ministry could hardly be called a boy.

"What again?" moaned Phineas Nigellus' voice. "I feel like all we've talked about for ages is that boy… Ever since he set foot in this school…"

"What happened this time, Minerva?" asked Dippet with the patronizing tone he liked to use with her—which annoyed her greatly.

She abruptly spun her seat around, so that she faced all the portraits. A few squeaked at her sudden move; she ignored them.

"Haven't you noticed?" she hissed. "Haven't _any of you_ noticed? How he's falling apart since the end of the war? How he's been changing, until he's barely recognisable? How he's _distancing_himself from all of those he used to care for?"

"Come on, Minerva," said Dippet soothingly. "The aftermaths of the war are traumatic enough to—"

"It is _not_ about the aftermaths of the war," snapped Professor McGonagall, with a quick prayer so that the heavens would grant her patience. "He was actually recovering from those. He was in touch again with the Weasleys, with Miss Granger and Remus Lupin… Miss Granger did say he was acting quite like himself. And then—it all collapsed…"

"What does Miss Granger say on the subject?" said a witch, two portraits away from Dippet.

Professor McGonagall heaved a sigh.

"Nothing," she said in a low voice. "She evades my questions and dodges the few visits I manage to pay her."

"Well, maybe that's because there's nothing to say!" said another former Headmaster jovially.

_Or maybe that's because she doesn't want to hear anything about Harry Potter,_ thought Professor McGonagall as she bit back a scathing reply.

She could feel Dumbledore's eyes on her, and she turned her head to him, seeking his advice as she had always done since she had first entered Hogwarts as Transfiguration teacher.

"Albus?"

Dumbledore slowly shook his head, a great sadness etched in all the lines of his old face.

"Harry is no longer ours to care for, Minerva," he said softly. "Maybe you should just let him go…"

Several nods and approbating exclamations greeted this answer; among those, Phineas Nigellus' sonorous _"And maybe we can have peace now!"_was perfectly heard by the Headmistress. Suddenly infuriated by all these pictures blabbering from their wall, Professor McGonagall rose, went round her office and strode across the circular room to the darkening window. She opened the window with an annoyed wave of her wand and leaned forward, her hands clutching the windowsill, gladly drowning the distant mumble of voices in the hissing October wind.

They did not care. Not even Dumbledore. It was no longer his problem. Now all they wanted was rule Hogwarts in the best way possible. Nobody cared if Hogwarts' saviour was alive or dead, sane or mad.

But_she_ still cared. She still wondered; she still worried. Harry Potter was her problem; only, he had become more than a problem lately. He was now an undecipherable riddle.

When she had heard about Weasley's strange accident, Professor McGonagall had feared that the loss of his best friend would harm Harry Potter beyond any possible healing. But it merely seemed to have cut short the thin thread still joining him to his peers, his equals—to his fellow wizards. Harry Potter hadn't seemed devastated. He hadn't seemed shocked. His curiosity hadn't even been aroused by the weirdness of the accident.

Since that day, he seemed to have stopped struggling against the power that pulled him further and further away from the wizarding community. Almost imperceptibly, month after month, he had changed. And those changes had edged him apart from everything he used to know; everything he used to be. He was now so far away that Professor McGonagall felt he couldn't be brought back amongst normal wizards—unless _he _wanted to.

And nobody else noticed. Nobody else _saw. _Nobody cared.

And it had lasted for fourteen months already.

**-----------------------------------------------------**

A slender branch caressed Harry's face as he entered Professor's Parletoo's office. There, too, the trees were growing everywhere, covering armchairs, shelves and tables with dense nets of knobbly roots… Their upper branches brushed against the ceiling, which was now barely visible between the dark green leaves…

And the trees murmured… An inaudible song rose all around Harry as he pushed back the branches blocking his way; a merry and soft singing. Harry distinguished words in their song, and he tried to understand them. He knew that language… He could almost catch the meaning of the whispered words… But then it escaped him again, as elusive as a puff of wind he would have tried to hold in his hands…

"Professor Parletoo?"

He was now in sight of the Healer's desk; ivy had crept up the desk and coiled up around the tall candle standing on the smooth wooden surface… Professor Parletoo was sitting in a wide armchair behind the desk, mumbling and sighing softly, his chin resting on his chest… Harry approached him, still followed by the soft laughter of the trees invading Parletoo's house.

"Professor?"

Harry reached the ivy-covered desk and outstretched his hand to touch Parletoo's shoulder. The Healer raised his head in response to the slight contact, but his eyes never met Harry's: he was staring right through him, his eyes misty and his gaze unfocused, an expression of vague contentment upon his usually excited features…

Harry's fingers curled around the Healer's shoulder and he started shaking him. Parletoo had to wake up… He had to answer Harry's questions… But Parletoo's body was limp, and as Harry shook him almost violently, the Healer slumped forward, face-down on his desk.

And there, sticking out of his back between the shoulder blades—as Harry somehow knew there would be—there was a long and thin arrow. Its tail of bright green feathers stood quivering in the air full of the trees' singing; and its head was no longer visible, having completely sunk into the flesh… And Harry knew the metal point could never be pulled out of the Healer's body, for it had melted into the flesh…

Leaving the Healer where he had collapsed on his desk, Harry straightened up and turned around. Ron's body was lying at his feet, sprawled across the extricated roots; and another arrow stuck out of his back, its metallic point inserted exactly between two vertebras… It had already melted, just as Parletoo's arrow, it had melted into his flesh…

Luna wasn't very far away. She was kneeling on the floor, her arms limp, her body slumped forward and her head hanging… She was mumbling incoherently too, and a third arrow was planted between her shoulder blades…

Harry turned on the spot, trying to find a way to escape the dark room, but the trees had blocked the door and the windows… They were closing around him…

A twig creaked under a foot and Harry spun around again, to find Hermione standing between two tall trees. Her eyes were wide as she stared at Ron's inanimate body, and her mouth was open in horror… And the ivy was now slyly creeping up her legs, encircling her tighter and tighter…

_I have seen all this way too many times,_ suddenly said a tired voice in Harry's head. _Enough of this nonsense. Open your eyes! Now!_

Harry's eyes flung open, and he was instantly dazzled by the immaculate whiteness of the ceiling of his ward in St. Mungo's. His vision was oddly darkened at the edges, as if his dream had only been temporarily blocked out and threatened to engulf him again any minute. Harry slightly shook his head to clarify his thoughts.

_The Dream-Injecter… Yes… Disconnect it…_

He raised his right hand with some difficulty and felt the crook of his left arm, which was lying limply on the sheets at his side. His fingers soon found the needle piercing his skin and plunging into the blue vein below. An ethereal thread, as inconsistent as a wisp of smoke, linked the needle to a bluish sphere full of mist that revolved slowly in the air next to Harry's bed.

Harry seized the needle between two fingernails and roughly pulled it out of his arm. At once, his vision cleared and the last remains of his dream faded into the distance.

Grabbing his glasses on the bedside table with his right hand—as his left arm pointedly refused to obey him at the moment—Harry swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and sat up. His mouth was dry and his brain seemed to work in slow motion, as if he had been sleeping under the influence of heavy sedatives. He inwardly groaned; it would take a few hours before he was fully functional again. The Dream-Injecter always left him a bit groggy, but today it seemed even worse than usual. Probably because he had willingly interrupted the session… He was going to be in trouble for that; as a matter of fact, he was surprised no one had burst in the room yet, shrieking in horror—

The door banged against the wall as it was forcefully pushed from the outside and a nurse rushed in, panic etched in every feature of her usually debonair face. Harry heaved a resigned sigh.

"Mr. Potter!" squealed the old nurse. "What happened? Did that wretched machine break down again?"

"No, I disconnected it myself," Harry answered heavily. "I think the session's over for today, Mrs. Walkins."

The nurse let out an outraged exclamation.

"Over!" she repeated. "You rested only for a half an hour! One session requires—"

"—three hours spent under the influence of this damned thing," Harry completed dully, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the blue sphere; it had stopped revolving when Harry had pulled the needle off his arm, and it now lay on the bedside table, as innocently transparent as a harmless glass ball.

The nurse looked about to reply, but when Harry stood up, staggering slightly as vertigo made his head spin, a panicky expression replaced once more the reprobating frown on her face.

"You're not going to leave now, are you?" she anxiously asked. "You need to stay here! You need to resume the session! You—"

But Harry passed by her and got out of the room without paying attention to her hysterical protests. Acting as if he couldn't hear what was said around him had become a habit of his in the past months—it saved him from sudden outbursts of anger at the world's stupidity, very likely to drain out of him every last shred of energy he still possessed.

"—the Head Healer won't be pleased by this, oh no, Mr. Potter, he won't," moaned the old nurse, trotting behind Harry who was now walking along the corridor and towards the staircase. "He'll be furious and I'll be responsible for this, don't think he will hesitate to fire me…"

Harry exhaled exasperatedly. Were there still _people _in this world who thought he was capable of any kind of sympathy? The entire hospital could get sacked for all he cared. He was done with dealing with other people's problems.

"—and then who will support my niece? The poor girl's an orphan, and I'm the only one who can pay for her studies in Hog—Professor Revol!"

The nurse's blabbering ended on a squeaky, strangely high-pitched note as a Healer, who had been discussing in the corridor with several interns, turned around at their approach; and indeed, Harry found himself face to face with Professor Revol's young and determined face. Revol had been the Head Healer of St. Mungo's Hospital since Parletoo's strange "accident".

"We'll continue this discussion later," he shot carelessly at the three giggling female interns who had been rapturously listening to him. Then, delicately smoothing the front of his lime green robes, he closed in two steps the gap separating him from Harry, efficiently blocking his way.

"Mr. Potter," he said briskly. "Is the session already over? I thought you were supposed to stay at St. Mungo's until midnight."

"I was," said Harry in a monotonous voice. "But I'm sick of having the same dream over and over again. That Dream-Injecter tires me more than it rests me. I interrupted the session."

"You can't do that," said the Head Healer sternly. "You're supposed to spend at least twenty hours a week under the Dream-Injecter, and you're already falling far below that limit."

"Too bad," retorted Harry, a little impatiently. "Now please move over. I need to get out of here."

To his annoyance, the Head Healer didn't step aside, but cast a quick glance all around him as if to check nobody was eavesdropping; but the corridor was empty. The giggling interns had backed away in one of the rooms when they had caught sight of Harry—he had become less and less popular in the past years—and the old nurse had discreetly slipped away, probably in the hope of being unnoticed by the Head Healer.

Reassured, Revol moved even closer to Harry and whispered, "Do I have to remind you what will happen if you don't get enough rest? Your body is about to give way, Mr. Potter. It needs to rest every night, and as you can't sleep, we have to find another way to give it the rest it craves for. The Dream-Injecter doesn't provide you with all the rest you need, but it's the best we can do. It's the only thing that will _work,_ do you understand me?"

Harry stared down at the Healer, who was looking straight in his eyes with a very serious expression. He was irritated by the man's confidential tone, as if he and Harry shared a vital secret. Harry almost snorted at this thought; the whole wizarding community, including himself, was waiting for the moment when he would finally collapse.

"Work?" he snapped. "Postpone my death, you mean."

"Well, yes," said coldly the Healer. "That's what we do all the time, Mr. Potter. Every man has to die one day, don't they? We keep putting back that day."

"Don't give me the lecture," Harry said brusquely. "How much time can I last, supposing that I don't use the Dream-Injecter?"

A flicker of uneasiness briefly altered the Healer's features at Harry's words; it only lasted a second, though, before his face automatically set into that honeyed, would-be reassuring expression he wore every time he was about to blurt out a comforting lie.

"Now, Mr. Potter, that's not a relev—"

"Given that it's _my _health we're talking about, I'd think I'm the one to decide which questions are relevant and which are not," said Harry coolly. "Don't try to reassure me, Professor, one more bad piece of news won't kill me.How long will I survive_without_ the Dream-Injecter?"

Healer Revol sighed noisily and rubbed his temple with a weary hand.

"What you must understand," he said at last, his voice suddenly lacking in the cheerful energy it was filled with only seconds before, "is that I can only estimate roughly the state of exhaustion you're in… And you seem quite more robust than most of my patients…"

"How_long?_" interrupted Harry loudly. God, why was it so difficult to wrench a simple answer from those charlatans in green robes?

The Healer shook his head with sadness—though whether it was genuine or faked, Harry couldn't tell. It didn't really matter, anyway. "For any normal wizard, I'd say six months, give or take a week or two," he answered gravely. "Taking into account your remarkable resistance—I believe you survived two years without sleeping a minute—I'd say nine to ten months, but no more."

Harry nodded to acknowledge the answer. Six months… Maybe nine or ten… The strange thing was that he couldn't tell whether he was happy or not about it. It could be all over in six months… All he had to do was stop fighting…

"Mr. Potter?"

The Healer's hesitant voice cut in Harry's meditation, bringing him back to reality.

"Thanks, Professor," Harry hurriedly said. "That's all I needed to know."

He took advantage of Healer Revol's obvious stupefaction at his reaction to go round him and reach the staircase in a few quick strides.

"I'll be waiting for you at nine o'clock tomorrow evening for the next session!" Revol called behind him.

Harry didn't answer; at the moment, he was very busy trying to keep his balance as he walked down the stairs. His gestures were oddly imprecise, as if he didn't have a total control over his muscles, and he had to grip the banister quite hard to steady himself. He cursed under his breath at the lasting effects of the Dream-Injecter. It was a relatively recent magical discovery, designed to artificially activate the production of dreams by the patient's brain. Meanwhile, the rest of the body was resting—perhaps not as fully as if the patient _was_ asleep, but close enough. The Injecter presented several inconveniences: it couldn't be used longer than three hours in a row, for fear the blue sphere would overheat and explode, and there were, of course, the nasty side-effects…

Harry had often thought that the good thing about his permanent insomnia was that at least, he was rid of the disturbing dreams which had infected his nights since he was fourteen. The irony of the obligation to use a Dream-Injecter hadn't escaped him: he hadn't got the sleep, but he had got the nightmares back. Dreams about the last war against Voldemort haunted the sessions of Dream-Injecting, forcing him to relive all the horrors he had witnessed then; and naturally, more than once the Forbidden Forest had come and invaded his mind with its strange whispering.

The dream about Parletoo's "accident"—as the other Healers put it—was the most frequent; almost every night, he relived the moment when, fourteen months ago, he had entered the old Healer's house with the intention to ask him some of the questions he, Hermione,and Ron had been discussing in Hermione's living room. He had found the Healer sitting behind his desk and mumbling vaguely, a long arrow stuck between his shoulder blades. That same day, Ron and Luna Lovegood had also been shot with arrows of the same kind.

The weirdest thing was that nobody had been able to pull the arrows out of the victims' backs: the metallic point had sunk into them, slotting into the spine between two vertebras, and had _melted _into the bodies. The Healers had had to cut the wooden arrows level with the skin. Ever since, Merlin Parletoo, Ron Weasley and Luna Lovegood had remained in St. Mungo's, alive, but unable to recognise anybody.

It was roughly around the same time that Harry had collapsed: after two years of surviving without getting any rest, his body had suddenly given up. One day, Harry had abruptly fainted, falling into a coma so deep, nobody thought he would ever wake up.

But he had. The Healers had bustled about around his bed for two days, finally succeeding in wrenching him away from the black nothingness he had fallen into. All the Healers who had studied his case had concluded that the lack of sleep had exhausted his body beyond the viable limits. Most of them were opposed to Harry working as an Auror, or working at all; in fact, they had wanted him to stay in St. Mungo's, in a ward for wizards permanently damaged by magic. When Harry had pointedly refused, they had opted for a treatment by Dream-Injecting—which they hadn't dared to consider at first since that recent invention had not been tested yet.

_Well, they've had all the time to test it, since I've been using the damned thing for over a year,_ Harry thought snappishly as he reached the reception hall. _They need a guinea-pig for their products? I'm here!_

Actually, the only moments when he had felt like himself again, the only moments he had truly enjoyed in the years following the arrows "incident", were his monthly transformations. Whenever he took the shape of the big white wolf, his worries seemed to dissolve miraculously, and the mere idea of his collapsing out of exhaustion became absolutely ludicrous.

At first, Remus had kept him company; but he was now too old to keep up with Harry's indefatigable runs in the country, and he had finally come back to the old system—Wolfsbane Potion and closed rooms. But Harry didn't mind; true, it was nice to transform with Remus, but he had had to keep an eye on him the whole time their transformation lasted. Now, at last, he was completely free…

The lingering nausea that had been blurring his thoughts and numbing his limbs since he had disconnected the Dream-Injecter eased when Harry finally stepped out of the Hospital and into the fresh air of October, with a sigh of relief. London was plunged into darkness, and if the sky hadn't been hidden behind a thick layer of grey clouds, he would have been able to see the first stars lighting up. Harry slowly began to walk along the street, allowing the cold breeze to wash away the last remains of the Dream-Injecter effects before he would Apparate home.

Six months… Maybe nine, maybe ten… How would it happen? Most likely, he would fall in a coma again. He would just have to make sure nobody was around him at the time, and it would be all over. All over.

Then why did he feel so reluctant? There was nothing there that was worth living for, though. Family? He didn't have one. The Weasleys weren't as comfortable around him as they used to be; he was too weird. Besides, even though they had never missed an opportunity to claim the contrary, he knew they couldn't help resenting him for what had happened to Ron. After all, Harry had Disapparated right before Ron was shot. If he hadn't been that eager to leave, he could have prevented it from happening. He could have saved him… It had always been his job to save everybody, hadn't it?...

Friends? What friends did he have? Remus was too busy with his new-found family to care about him, even if he kept telling Harry he was welcome at his and Tonks' house.

Hermione… There was no Hermione anymore. All that was left was Miss Granger, Unspeakable. And especially unspeakable towards Harry.

Neither Harry nor Hermione had failed to link the three attacks to the conversation they had had earlier in Hermione's living room. Parletoo may have been able, when examining Harry, to find signs of his belonging to another kind—whatever it was. Luna seemed to know a great deal about a time when werewolves could control themselves. Both had been shot. Ron, on the other hand, didn't know anything; but he had been put in charge of finding out about dryads in the Wizardkind History. As they hadn't specified who he would ask for information, it was much simpler to neutralise _him_ before he had even started his research.

Hermione could add two and two; she had quickly come to the conclusion that someone seemed really eager to prevent them from finding anything about Harry's condition. Between this statement and concluding that the aggression on Ron was Harry's fault, there was a very thin line, and Harry was pretty sure Hermione had crossed it. He had scarcely seen her after that, and he wasn't one to force his company upon people who clearly didn't seek it.

What would be her reaction if he died?... She would probably become even more embittered by her status as the ex-best mate of the Boy-Who-No-Longer-Lived. Maybe she would feel a little guilty for refusing to speak to him, or in the contrary, maybe she would resent him for not trying to justify himself. Or maybe she wouldn't give a damn.

He thought the Weasleys would sincerely regret him—well, not exactly_him,_ but the kid they used to know. He had seen them three or four times since the end of the war, more than three years ago; they couldn't possibly know how much he had changed in those years. They probably still remembered him as Ginny's boyfriend… And it was a fair bet Ginny wasn't doing anything to convince them of the contrary: he somehow felt she still wouldn't give up on him. There was the way she always tried to make him talk about the past, or about Hermione, whenever he came across her—which happened surprisingly often; she actually seemed to haunt Harry's footsteps—, and most of all, the way she looked at him with a mixture of deep understanding and—and a sort of _certainty._

As if she was sure he would come back to her in the end.

Harry gritted his teeth and his right hand clenched and unclenched nervously at his side. Understanding. Now that was comical. He felt so different from them that it was as if he belonged to another kind._Which is probably the case,_ he thought sardonically. Those people had come through the war and the loss of three of them—Percy during the war, Charlie in the months following Voldemort's downfall, and now Ron—totally _unchanged._ He used to admire that strength of will, which made them cope so bravely with all the horrors they had been through; now he found it positively maddening. He had stopped understanding them, but at least he had had the decency to realise that, and to stop trying. They didn't understand a thing about him either, but _they_ couldn't or wouldn't admit it…

Of course, he should marry Ginny. That was everyone expected him to do. Ginny had decided he was perfect for her at the age of ten, and all her brothers agreed with her. As for her parents, they would just welcome an opportunity to make him officially their son. Fleur was the only one to contradict them on that point—Harry had actually overheard her at the Ministry, advising Ginny at the top of her voice to find a man as quickly as possible, as "she was not getting any younger"—but he strongly suspected it had only been another result of the mutual animosity reigning between the two sisters-in-law, rather than a surge of lucidity.

Oh yes, everyone expected him to marry Ginny. It was the right thing to do; he had saved her life, he had protected her, he had always been treated as a seventh son by her parents… Next step was logically marriage.

Harry pulled a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly in exasperation. He was sick of following paths that had been drawn for him by others. He was no longer interested in Ginny; he hadn't been for over three years, couldn't they just grasp that simple concept?...

At first, he had ended things between them because he thought himself too deeply wounded to start a healthy relationship with anybody; but now, Ginny simply irked him.

He used to find her beautiful; now the sight of her knowing smile inevitably made his hand twitch near his wand-pocket. That expression she wore, as if she knew exactly what was going through his mind… As if all she had to do was waiting calmly until he got a grip on himself, after which he would undoubtedly fall at her feet with adoring eyes… Oh, how he longed to shake that everlasting self-confidence of hers…

How would _she _react to his death? _Probably cry her eyes out and introduce herself as Harry Potter's true love,_ he thought savagely. _Then she would take to explain to everyone what sort of man I was and how she knew how much I had been hurt during the war and blah blah blah… _

All those people… They were not worth living for. But they were not worth dying for either. The entire wizarding community was holding their breath, waiting for him to die, or go so utterly crazy that the Ministry would gladly seize the opportunity to lock him away. Ginny probably had her widow's expression ready for use, just as Malfoy and his other enemies had the bottles of champagne ready. He was certainly not going to give them this satisfaction; he would live, even if it meant spending hours under the influence of the Dream-Injecter. He would live, because he hadn't survived all these murder attempts only to let himself die out of spite and exhaustion at the end. He would live just for the sake of making Snape's, Malfoy's and Scrimgeour's bile boil.

And he would make sure to enjoy every single minute of his contradicting their wishes.

Harry smirked at the thought. The fresh air had cleared his mind and freed his limbs of the clumsiness that always came with the sessions of Dream-Injecter. It was safe for him to Apparate now. Stepping into the shadows of a porch, he prepared to go home.

The wind enveloped him at once, coiling around him like a fresh, airy tentacle, and making his Muggle coat swirl around his body; next second, Harry felt himself literally dissolving into the wind, his whole body losing its consistence as he was pulled off the ground. Harry smiled blissfully: now his favourite part was beginning…

He was hovering miles above the ground, as light and inconsistent as vapour; the wind kept swirling him around, almost playfully, and going faster and faster until he could see nothing but light blurs that were stars, spinning around in the black sky. Then he started going down; he went slowly at first, like a dead leaf falling from a tree, but as his body started to regain its consistence, his speed increased until he was dropping like a stone.

His feet soon met the hard stone ground of the courtyard of his building, and it was all over. Harry instinctively looked up, as if trying to find a mark of his travelling through the sky; but the grey, heavy mass of clouds hanging above his head looked so solid he wondered how he could have fallen through them without realising it. All of it had lasted perhaps a quarter of second, but it had felt so much longer…

Harry didn't know when he had stopped Apparating _normally_. He used to Apparate and Disapparate at least four times a day as an apprentice, and this number had considerably increased when he had finally been qualified as an Auror; young Aurors were often used as couriers by their elder colleagues. Splinching accidents often occurred at the end of the day, when the exhausted Aurors had to Disapparate for the tenth time. Harry, on the other hand, had soon come to notice that he never splinched himself when he was tired; but just before the world went black around him, there was a puff of wind coiling around his legs. The wind had gradually become stronger with each passing day—until Harry had felt himself being lifted in the airs instead of being forced into a sort of metallic straitjacket.

Harry hadn't failed to conclude that this must have been another sign of his "weirdness", which seemed to be showing more and more as years passed. But he was surprised to find out it didn't bother him in the slightest: after all, regular Apparition was extremely uncomfortable and he didn't have so many pleasant moments that he could afford to throw away one of them, just because it was unusual.

As long as he kept quiet about his newfound abilities, there was no reason why he shouldn't fully enjoy them…

Harry smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs two at a time. Of course, he still wondered _what_ he was—though he didn't try too hard to find out, as he was quite busy with his Auror's life and he incidentally didn't fancy having an arrow striking him in the back. But he was wondering out of mere curiosity, not in order to try to come back to his former self. He was far more enduring than his fellow Aurors, he had the possibility to change into a powerful wolf once a month and to Apparate absolutely painlessly; he really wasn't complaining.

He reached the sixth floor and opened his door with a quick flick of his wand. The apartment was dark and silent; obviously, Lance wasn't there, and Amy had found someone else to spend the night with.

Harry had only just allowed his coat to fall to the floor and was reaching for a bottle, standing on the coffee table between two piles of reports and forms—that kind of tedious, boring work young Aurors were required to do—when a sharp tapping noise resounded in the sultry air of the closed apartment. Harry froze and slowly straightened up.

The_tap-tap-tap_ came again; it seemed to be coming from the closed window, and now, he could also hear a rustling of feathers against the shutters. An owl. But who could possibly write to him in the middle of the night…?

Harry quickly went around the coffee table and walked to the window, his wand in his hand—just in case.

_I swear, if it's from Ginny I'll hex the bird._

He had not received any owl from Ginny, and he doubted she would go so low as to send him love letters so late at night, like a lovesick puppy; nevertheless, the prospect was alarming enough to justify an owl-plucking.

He turned the catch and tugged quite violently on it, forcing the old and neglected window to open with a squeak of protest. He then slightly pushed the right shutter and peered through the narrow opening. A very familiar-looking tawny owl was fluttering in front of him, maintaining itself level with the window by quick battings of its wide wings.

He couldn't help it: his heart leaped in his chest when he recognised a Hogwarts owl. How strange that was… Of all things, the thought of a school—a mere _castle_—was enough to awaken what was left of his old self. He hadn't been to Hogwarts in ages; not since his first transformation, as a matter of facts…

Harry opened the window wider and the owl gratefully flew inside the room. It perched itself on top of the back of a chair and obligingly extended its leg, to which was tied a letter bearing the words, _To Mr. Harry J. Potter._ And that was it.

Harry untied the letter and brought it closer to his face, frowning. His name was written in Professor McGonagall's dry, narrow handwriting that. Breaking the wax seal, he finally ripped open the envelope and took out a sheet of parchment on which ran a few lines of the Headmistress's handwriting.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I wish to talk to you about a matter of some importance. Since most of your nights are, from what I heard, relatively unoccupied, I'd like to see you at Hogwarts castle some evening this week—tonight if it's possible. This letter will allow you to go through the gates; just slip it between the two sides of the gates and you will be granted entrance._

_The password to my office is _Loch Ness.

_M. McGonagall._

Harry's eyebrows rose higher and higher as he read on. Why on earth would McGonagall want to see him…? Was there a problem with the protective wards around the school? Usually, he would have been annoyed at being asked for help again, when he was already working quite hard all day—but this was about Hogwarts. It was different.

Harry rolled back the letter and, pointing at his bedroom the wand he had never dropped, said, "Accio cloak!"

His long travelling cloak went instantly flying towards him from inside the bedroom; Harry caught it easily and flung it across his shoulders in one mechanical and fluid gesture. Having stuffed the letter in an inner pocket and slid his wand in his belt, he headed for the door of his apartment again. He was really curious to know what McGonagall wanted with him; besides, he had been wanting to go back to the school for a long time—he had a request to submit to his former teacher.

A knot tightened unexpectedly in the pit of his stomach at the thought of going back to Hogwarts.

…Was there something left here that was worth living for?

There was Hogwarts.

**-----------------------------------------------------**

"Potter."

Professor McGonagall was standing in the doorway of her office, having just answered Harry's knock on her door. She seemed so deeply relieved to see him that Harry wondered again what had made her summon him.

"Everything's all right, Professor?" he enquired with a questioning look.

"Yes, quite all right, thank you," she answered quickly, her tone betraying an unusual nervousness. "Do come in."

Harry followed her inside the office, puzzled a little further by Professor McGonagall's attitude. It was so strange to see her nervous that it made him slightly ill-at-ease; and his hand wandered unconsciously at his waist, near his wand.

The room was roughly as he remembered it—the portraits still pretended to be asleep in their frames, even Dumbledore. The few tables here and there were heavily loaded with books, parchments and strange instruments—though there weren't quite as many of those as in Dumbledore's time—and the Headmistress's desk was just as overloaded with what looked like essays.

"You're still correcting essays?" Harry asked incredulously. He knew that, as the Headmistress, Professor McGonagall didn't have to teach or correct essays anymore; even if she had wanted to, she would probably have lacked the time to do so.

"Well, yes," Professor McGonagall admitted grudgingly as she sat behind the desk. "The new Transfiguration Teacher is a nice man, but he does need to work harder on his corrections—and in the meantime, I'd rather have a look at the students' essays before he hands them back. He sometimes overlooks huge mistakes… Another teacher fresh from these schools where they teach them the "new ways"!"

She punctuated her answer with a disdainful sniff, and Harry smiled in spite of himself. _Some things will never change…_

"So why did you want to see me, Professor?" he finally asked.

Professor McGonagall put her elbows on the desk and clasped her hands together as she peered at him over the edge of her square glasses.

"There are some matters I want to discuss with you, Harry," she began slowly; and she sounded as if she was carefully choosing her words. "But before that, I wanted to ask you—is there something you wish to tell me about?"

Harry stared at her; he was strongly reminded of Dumbledore, who had asked him a very similar question in his second year. But at the time he had been a twelve-year-old overwhelmed with a fame he had never sought and problems that weren't all his. Now…

"No, thank you, Professor," he said, a little intrigued. She hadn't sounded annoyingly understanding as Ginny often did; she actually sounded worried. He suddenly wondered how much she suspected about his recent evolution.

Professor McGonagall sighed again and rose to her feet.

"Very well then. Would you mind going with me on a walk around the grounds?"

His sentiment of puzzlement increasing, Harry only nodded and followed her out of her office.

They went down staircase after staircase, sometimes meeting a prefect patrolling here and there or a ghost drifting serenely in the air along a corridor. Professor McGonagall was keeping up a rather boring conversation, about his new job, his colleagues and his boss; and Harry felt she was reserving the information she wanted to share with him for when they would be in the grounds—away from the ears of ghosts, prefects and portraits.

Professor McGonagall shivered slightly when they stepped out of the castle at last; and she drew closer around her the cloak she had picked up in her office before leaving. Harry, who didn't quite feel the cold, let the wind rush in his cloak and make it swirl around his shoulders. He liked that feeling of being enveloped in moving air…

"Now, what went wrong, Harry?"

Harry's head snapped to the left side in order to look at Professor McGonagall.

"Nothing," he repeated. "Why are you asking?"

"Don't tell me there's nothing wrong, Potter," snapped Professor McGonagall. "Why aren't you seeing Miss Granger anymore? Why is she so reluctant to talk about you? Why are you… so _different_, all of sudden?"

At her last words, Harry stopped dead in his tracks and considered the old teacher with something like astonishment, and a new form of esteem. That was the last thing he had been expecting. No one had asked… No one had seen… No one had pronounced the word 'different' in front of him before she had; and yet, he hadn't seen her in such a long time…

"You noticed?" he blurted out.

That wasn't quite what he had intended to say, but it summed up his thoughts decently enough.

"Of course I did," she said curtly. "Even if I seem to be the only one realising you've stopped being the boy I used to teach. Even Dumbledore…"

Her voice trailed away, and a heavy silence settled between the pair of them.

"I did change," said Harry in a low voice. "But I can't explain it. And I don't need anyone's help. I am not sick, Professor."

He had said the last words with a final, determined tone that clearly showed he had no intention to elaborate. Professor McGonagall wasn't looking at him; her gaze was fixed in front of her, lingering on the tall hoops that stood at both ends of the Quidditch pitch. When she finally spoke, she had dropped the clipped tone she so often used and her voice was slightly hushed.

"I understand that, Potter. I just wanted to make sure you were well. But be careful not to lose yourself."

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. "_Lose himself_"? What could she possibly mean…?

"By the way, I've been thinking that you can't have had much occasions to fly lately," she went on in her normal voice, and Harry was so surprised by this abrupt change of subject that he slightly jumped. "If you feel like coming here to fly for a few hours during your spare time, feel free to do so. I can give you free access to the school and its grounds."

"Thanks, Professor," said Harry, taken unawares by this sudden proposition. Then, abruptly remembering what he had intended to ask her when he had first left his apartment, he went on, "Will I have free access to the library as well?"

She turned to face him, her expression both surprised and a little mocking.

"The library?" she repeated.

Harry smiled. "Yes," he said. "I feel like reading when I don't have anything else to do…"

The hint of a smile flickered across her face as she drew her cloak closer still around her body against the biting wind.

"Access granted," she said. "That includes, of course, the Restricted Section."

Harry's smile widened. She had understood him better than he had expected.

He would undoubtedly get some interesting reads in the following nights. And he would make sure to profit from them as much as he could.

**  
**


	10. Headmasters of Hogwarts

**Chapter Nine: Headmasters of Hogwarts**

The Forest was always full of noise at this time of the year. The autumnal wind caused the thick branches to swing heavily up and down, and the dead leaves piled at the trees' feet rose in swirling circles in the air, chasing one another in wild ballets. And the wind wailed as it brushed past the hard and rough bark covering the tree trunks. But in the midst of the creaking of branches, rustling of leaves and moaning of the wind, could also be heard a whispering that did not usually belong there. Issued from the far away core of the Forest, a cold breeze blew among the more tame trees of the edge, coiling around the trunks, exploring, searching, and bringing with it the old voices of the wild trees.

Never before had the voice of the hundreds-years-old trees ventured so far away from the dark heart of the Forbidden Forest. Never before had it left the shelter of the trees and come to caress the stone walls of Hogwarts castle. Barely noticeable as it travelled among the furious blasts of the autumn wind, the whispering breeze went round the imposing towers and headed for a window on the fifth floor, as if drawn by a commanding voice. The windowpanes rattled as the voices of the old trees hit them and lingered there, searching their way around the glass obstacle.

But the library windows were protected from the assaults of the bad weather by many old spells; and no matter how much the voices of the trees insistently whispered against the glass, all they could do was cause the flickering of a candle floating in the library, above the head of a dark-haired man bent over severable open books scattered across his table.

Harry turned another page of a venerable book, stifling a huge yawn of boredom as he did so. He was beginning to think he would never find anything about the Forbidden Forest in the Hogwarts library; he had gone through almost all the books that were even remotely related to Hogwarts' history and foundation. But none of them mentioned anything particular about the Forest. From what he had been able to gather, the Forest had stood for as long as the castle itself, if not longer, and it had always been seen as a dangerous place for wizards.

Those guesses had led him to rewrite on a piece of paper one of the many questions Hermione had asked, that fateful day when Ron had been shot. Why had the founders of Hogwarts chosen for a school a place so openly hostile to their own kind?

The problem was, since he had figured that out, he hadn't made any progress at all; and he would have given up a long time ago if it hadn't been for the intriguing whispering he occasionally heard when he was at Hogwarts, a whispering sounding a lot like the voices of the old trees in the core of the Forest.

He had dutifully devoted one night out of two to his researches about the Forbidden Forest; the other nights were spent in a disused classroom, practicing all sorts of new spells he found in the books of the library. Harry had to admit to himself that he was having fun like a schoolboy on those nights of practice; it reminded him of his Hogwarts years, of the time when he used to plan lessons for the members of the DA…

Harry mentally shook himself. Tonight was not a night of practice; he still had to go through two enormous books before he could call it a night and go wandering in the castle or on the grounds. He pushed _The Magical Creatures of European Wizarding Schools _aside and grabbed a hefty tome titled _Headmasters of Hogwarts: Their Lives and Feats._

"Forest," he mumbled tiredly, drawing circles with his wand over the book. "Search for forest…"

Every time it was the same routine; choose a book, and use the Key Word spell to find the pages in which the word 'Forest' appeared. Most of the times of course it wasn't of any use: sentences such as 'Mandrakes are usually to be found deep within forests…' were only too frequent…

The book opened of its own volition and the pages started to turn lazily under the influence of the Key Word spell, stopping only whenever the spell found the word 'Forest' — which, Harry noticed with some surprise, seldom happened.

"…_The sycamores of the southern edge were_ _planted by unfortunate Eric de Pallas' successor, Sir Amadeus Philacteria, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from 1086 to 1122, the very first day of his time as Headmaster. The trees were magically grown in the greenhouses and transplanted there in order to counter or at least control the evil spirit of the Forest. Many spells and powerful charms were used to give the sycamores greater resistance; and even if they were finally corrupted, those trees never allowed the Evil to spread beyond the boundaries of the woods. The Forest was declared forbidden to all, students and staff alike. To these days, Sir Philacteria is still considered as one of the greatest headmasters of the school for countering the danger of the Forest. His other actions…"_

This was about all the interesting information that _Headmasters of Hogwarts: Their Lives and Feats_ had to give about the Forbidden Forest; the rest of the paragraph was a detailed telling of Philacteria's life, along with his wife's and sons', none of which had anything to do with the Forest. Harry let out an exasperated sigh as he leant back in his chair, bringing both hands up to the sides of his head and pressing the heels into his temples as he did so, as if it could help him to bring under control the hundreds of ideas swirling in his mind and to draw the logical conclusions. God, he wasn't good at this. The thought of Hermione crossed his mind but he drove it away with a slight shake of his head. Even if she had been willing to help him, this was something he wanted to do alone. Closing his eyes, he compelled himself to think again of what he had just read.

Philacteria had been the second Headmaster after the last founder, Helga Hufflepuff, had died; if Harry got his dates right, that meant his predecessor — Eric de Pallas — had barely lasted four years. His stay in the Headmaster position was hardly mentioned in the old book. He was merely said to have died in mysterious circumstances… Then Philacteria had become Headmaster, and the very first measure he had taken was planting sycamores at the southern edge of the Forest… Had his haste had anything to do with Pallas' death?

Harry straightened up and pulled the book closer to him. For a few seconds he reread the few paragraphs about Pallas and Philacteria, absentmindedly chewing on his lip in concentration. Why was the author so elusive as to Pallas' death, while he seemed to take pleasure, only a few lines further down, in detailing Philacteria's most fastidious actions? It didn't make sense…

Harry slowly ran his hand over the page, carefully smoothing the old parchment. The move was reflexive; he didn't have the faintest clue as to what he was expecting… A hint, a clue, that would tell him the author knew more about Pallas' death and was simply hiding it from curious eyes…

All of sudden, a faint sizzling sound disturbed the still air of the library; a sound that seemed to be coming from the page his fingers were brushing. He withdrew his hand and the sizzling instantly stopped. Harry froze, his hand still held up in the air, and stared at the book lying innocently on the table. But the parchment covered in the author's narrow handwriting looked exactly the same as before.

His heart racing, Harry hesitantly brought his fingers down to the page and ran them along the lines of faded black ink. He caught the sizzling sound again as he reached the end of the extremely short paragraph dedicated to Pallas' stay at Hogwarts as Headmaster. If his senses hadn't been unnaturally sharpened, Harry doubted he would have been able to hear anything.

Pulling out his wand, he bent over the book and examined it closely, with an almost professional concentration that contradicted the excitement running in his veins. Falsified documents were an everyday occurrence in an Auror's life, and learning revealing spells was a huge part of their training. There were about as many of those spells as there were ways of tampering with anything that could be used as exhibit…

Harry lifted his head and quickly scanned the library. It was half past four in the morning and the room was predictably deserted; but he knew Madam Pince didn't trust him with her precious books, no matter what Headmistress McGonagall said, and charms designed to warn her if he used magic on a book were to be expected. Harry quickly cast a Calfeutre Curse on the door of her office, which was barely visible between two long bookshelves stretching in front of him, and thus ensured she wouldn't hear anything even if a magical alarm went off. Then he brought his attention back to _Headmasters of Hogwarts._

Harry moved his wand over the page, muttering a flow of incantations as he did so; and soon colourful beams of light were dancing across the page, sneaking between the inky lines and investing the old leather binding like luminous worms. The book shuddered, quivered and trembled. Harry gritted his teeth and concentrated on maintaining the spells. It was becoming more and more difficult, as he felt magical obstacles violently fighting his intrusion. After only a minute an odd hissing sound coming from the hand clutching the wand made him look down in surprise: his wand was overheating so much that it was burning his skin, and a little smoke was escaping his tightened fingers. His palm was probably covered in blisters, his skin like cardboard…

The magical protection on the book made it extremely hard to keep up his assault, but it had reinforced his curiosity to the point where the mere idea of giving up seemed absolutely ludicrous. The unusually strong resistance met by his revealing spells was enough to prove that the book had indeed been modified — maybe the answer to his questions was just there, at the tip of his wand… Just hold on a little longer…

A loud wail suddenly came from the book and Harry felt the pattern of spells tighten to the point of breaking. The book started to shake violently, glowing in the light of the spells, as a sickening smell of burnt flesh came from Harry's hand. His wand was seconds away from exploding…

The beams of brightly coloured light abruptly vanished, causing the pressure at the tip of Harry's wand to lift. Caught off guard, Harry fell forward and collapsed on the table which promptly yielded under his weight, sending Harry and the dozen books spread across it crashing to the floor. Harry instinctively threw out an arm to break his fall, but he couldn't prevent the table from hitting the floor with a deafening sound; nor could he efficiently shield himself from the heavy books showering down on his head.

Half knocked out, Harry lay on the floor for a few seconds, stars popping in front of his eyes and his ears still ringing with the thunderous sound of books hitting the floor. He eventually straightened up, groggily pushing his glasses back up his nose and looking around at the books scattered across the floor. _Headmasters of Hogwarts_ lay at a few inches near his left foot, looking just as dusty, old and worn out as ever. He extended his hand to grab it.

"What's going on here?"

Madam Pince's sharp voice had on him the effect of an electrical discharge. The Calfeutre Curse had most likely been lifted when Harry had dropped his wand, and the old librarian had been alerted by the noise. If she ever found him sitting on the floor in the midst of a pool of dilapidated books, she would most likely try to skin him alive with a paper knife; most importantly, she would forbid him access to the library from now on. And that wasn't an option.

Hastily getting to his feet, Harry tucked _Headmasters of Hogwarts _under his elbow before putting the various books back on their shelf with a single wave of his wand; then, not waiting to be found by Madam Pince, he wheeled around and walked a little faster than usual towards the exit.

It wasn't before he found himself in the corridor that he opened the book again.

"What the…" he muttered disbelievingly.

A huge splash of ink now spread all over the page he had used his revealing spells on; it drenched the parchment, stretching right between Pallas' short biography and the endless considerations about Philacteria's uninteresting life. It was as if a reserve of ink had suddenly poured out of the parchment, pushing both paragraphs aside.

Harry stared at the black and wet page in bemusement. Not only had _they_ used a concealing charm, but _they _had also blended the words together in a single splash of ink to ensure the meaning would remain hidden…

The damage was irreparable. There was no way he could make out words from this mess. In frustration, Harry threw the book against the stone wall; it bounced off it and crashed on the floor, several torn off pages lazily fluttering down to the wooden boards around it.

Leaning against the cool stone wall, Harry closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths in an attempt to soothe the burning anger boiling inside him. He had been so close…

Harry let himself slide down the wall into a sitting position. _Headmasters of Hogwarts_, grotesquely spread on the floor at a few feet from him, seemed to mock his feeling of helplessness. He glared at it, and his fingers literally itched with the urge to grab it and throw it out of a window. His arm was half outstretched when a sudden thought came to his mind, causing him to freeze in his tracks.

There were people who remembered the events told in this book. Their spirits had remained in the castle, long after their deaths. Maybe they would be able to tell him…

Harry sprang to his feet and, snatching the book back from the floor, hope swelling again inside his chest, he set off at top speed in the direction of the Headmistress' office.

Where the portraits of the Headmasters of Hogwarts still talked and remembered.

The Head office was dark and empty, and the silence was only disturbed by the deep breathings of the portraits hanging off the wall. Harry quietly closed the door behind him. Professor McGonagall was away for the night; she had made sure he knew the passwords and locking spells she used on her doors before she went, though, in case he needed anything from her office. Harry had the feeling she considered him as worthy of the Headmaster position as she was — something she had implied once in front of her entire staff, while looking as vindictive as if she had wanted to forcibly impose her absolute faith in him on all the teachers. The look on Snape's face had been priceless.

Harry quickly focused back on the task at hand. Lighting the candles with a lazy flick of his wand, he walked up to the huge mahogany desk, making sure to bump noisily into a few pieces of furniture on his way. He settled in the wide armchair and spun it around so that he was facing the wall of portraits. They were now snoring with a little too much enthusiasm to be credible. Harry was a tad annoyed to see that even Dumbledore's portrait was feigning sleep, with as much subtlety as his predecessors.

"Professor Dumbledore," he called loudly.

Dumbledore let out a chuckle as he finally opened his eyes and smiled widely at Harry.

"Forgive me for that little act, Harry," he said lightly, his eyes twinkling like in the old days. "I couldn't resist."

A half-grin stretched Harry's lips in response, but he was far too impatient right now to enjoy a nice long chat with the former Headmaster. He needed answers.

"Professor," he began, "I was wondering if I could have a word with… err… Headmaster Philacteria, please?"

Dumbledore rested his elbows on the frame of his picture and put together the tips of his long fingers. His smile was still lighting up his old face but he was staring at Harry with an intensity that almost caused him to bring up his Occlumency shield; which would have been a waste of energy, since a portrait could not perform Legilimency.

"Sir Philacteria?" he repeated softly. "That's quite an old colleague of mine, Harry. Very old indeed."

"Yes," said Harry, more curtly than he intended — he was actually squirming with impatience in his armchair. "I, err, I read something interesting about his time here as a Headmaster and I'd like a few clarifications…"

"Clarifications?" interrupted an old wheezy voice. "Ask and you will receive, o young alumnus of Gryffindor."

Harry looked around, searching for the source of the voice; soon he had spotted an old blackened portrait in the top left hand corner of the wall. The thin old man inside was peering down at him, an eager smile on his wrinkled and bearded face. Harry rose and walked a few steps to the left; out of the corner of his eye, he caught an annoyed and almost alarmed look on Dumbledore's face as he drew closer to Philacteria's portrait, and a feeling of wariness tightened in the pit of his stomach.

"What do you wish to know, alumnus?" the old Headmaster asked with an expression close to glee. "You are the first to resort to my knowledge and wisdom in many, many years, you know. How can I help such a brilliant young wizard, I wonder?"

Harry cleared his throat, feeling now a little apprehensive as all the portraits gave up on pretending and curiously peered down at him, some of them whispering behind their hands like students anxious to go unnoticed.

"Sir," he began. "I have recently heard about your being considered as one of the greatest headmasters the school ever had…"

Harry paused for a few seconds, giving the old man the time to swell with pride while his neighbours scowled or, out of spite, went back to feigning sleep.

"I do believe I was a good headmaster," Philacteria said modestly. "My efforts to keep the school united were in continuity with the founders' policy, and—"

"And you were especially appreciated for countering the danger of the Forbidden Forest," Harry smoothly went on, cutting across him. "The sycamores of the southern edge… Your doing, isn't it?"

Every Headmaster instantly woke up again and the tension in the room grew palpable at the mention of the Forbidden Forest. Harry tensed as well, his hand automatically coming to brush against his wand pocket, as he firmly kept his eyes fixed on Philacteria's face.

"The sycamores… Yes, the sycamores, yes…" the old Headmaster said, sounding a little as if Harry's interruption had thrown him off balance. "Yes… The Forest… Well, it was dangerous… Evil, you see… And the poor Chevalier Eric de Pallas… When you see what happened to him…"

"What are you talking about, Amadeus?" suddenly boomed a broad-shouldered wizard whose portrait was a few feet from Philacteria's. "That imbecile died in the mountains, didn't he? He fell in a fissure and broke his neck. Ha, he always was a foolhardy man."

"That's right! That's right!" squealed a witch, two rows of portraits lower. "He only lasted four years before going to explore the mountains of Hogwarts, from what I have heard."

"Exactly," agreed the broad-shouldered wizard. "Amadeus, you must be confused with someone else."

"Well… I must say… My dear young friends…" stammered Philacteria, his eager smile having faded to be replaced by a puzzled expression. "I really thought — but you must be right, of course… That memory of mine can be tricky sometimes. Old age, heh!"

The portraits all simultaneously burst out laughing at this, and for a whole minute jokes and peals of laughter resounded from every direction.

"But you planted the sycamores!" Harry half-shouted in order to cover the portraits' voices. "You tried to control the Forest! To counter the influence of its spirit!"

"Old Amadeus has always had a soft spot for sycamores, haven't you, Amadeus?" the witch that had spoken earlier called out promptly. "Of course this Forest has no spirit. It's a Forest! There are a few foul creatures in it but trees in themselves—"

"SILENCE!"

All noises instantly died away as Dumbledore's powerful voice rang through the office. Harry turned to him, shocked to feel how much power Dumbledore's mere presence still held, even as he was only a painting, hanging off a wall among dozens of other paintings. Albus Dumbledore had straightened up in his frame and his eyes were cold and hard.

"Harry," he said sharply in the ringing silence. "I do not think you gullible enough to believe a word of what my predecessors just uttered. I will not insult your intelligence by claiming there is nothing more than dangerous beasts in that Forest. You guessed right, some trees in the Forest used to have a spirit. An evil spirit. That spirit was fought against, and conquered, over the years… Now the only thing remaining there is a mere memory of the old hatred. That's all, I promise you."

"But what _was_ it?" Harry asked eagerly. "That spirit? Were the trees alive, or was it something else?"

"_You do not want to know…"_

The raspy, sepulchral voice was barely above a murmur but it echoed around the room in such a sinister way that a shiver ran along Harry's spine. Dumbledore's face had frozen in an expression of irrational fear that matched the look on the faces of all the other Headmasters. Dozens of terrified eyes slowly turned to gaze at a portrait hanging next to Philacteria's. The very first portrait that had ever been hung on the wall.

The painting had been black and seemingly empty a few minutes before, but now it glowed with a dull and morbid grey light, revealing intricate branches and tree trunks. Between the knotted branches appeared a pale face framed with long and dirty hair, the only visible part of a body held captive by the roots and branches that coiled around it like tentacles. The man's pale blue eyes found Harry's, and he felt the same irrational fear chill his entrails.

"_Oh no, young man, you don't want to find out what slime hides in the depths of the Forest," _the man whispered again. _"They are them… The third kind, the forgotten, the beaten, but the hateful kind… They hate us… They would crush you, crush us, crush this entire castle and the whole wizarding world if they could!"_

The man's voice grew louder and more urgent as he reached the end of his sentence, his eyes still glued to Harry's, who found himself unable to look away; and the raspy voice rose to a scream.

"_CRUSH YOU!" _the man in the portrait bellowed as he desperately struggled against the branches that tightened around him. _"CRUSH YOU! CRUSH US ALL! DESTROY EVERYTHING WE'VE BUILT AND FOUGHT FOR! THEY WILL CRUSH US! CRUSH US!"_

The trees in the portrait swung their branches around with an ominous hissing sound as the Chevalier de Pallas screamed and thrashed. His eyes popped out of their sockets and drool and blood trickled down his gaping mouth while the branches circling his body squeezed him tighter and tighter, until he looked as if he was about to snap in half. Harry suddenly realised he had backed away and was firmly pressed against the opposite wall, as if he was trying to go through it and escape the horrifying sight, but he still couldn't avert his eyes from the screaming portrait.

The other portraits were now screaming as well, covering their ears and sobbing hysterically, and the rare ones who were silent looked scared out of their wits. A witch started to pull out handfuls of her hair, suddenly struck by a fit of madness, and a few others turned their back on the room and fled from their frames.

"Harry!"

Harry's head snapped down and he met Dumbledore's scared eyes.

"You need to go now!" shouted the old Headmaster. "Or it will only get worse! Go!"

Harry numbly nodded and crossed the office in a few strides. As he wrenched the door open, the portraits' screams echoed briefly in the spinning staircase before he cut them short by slamming the door shut.

Harry took a few minutes to catch is breath. His heart was racing and the hand still holding _Headmasters of Hogwarts _was sweaty and slippery.

The fear… The fear in the eyes of those great and powerful wizards and witches… The terrified look on Dumbledore's face… Pallas being suffocated by dark and thick branches…

He couldn't get rid of those pictures. They caused other images to flash again in his mind, images he had tried to block out. Bellatrix Lestrange screaming and struggling against the deadly grip of the trees… Rodolphus Lestrange's body jerking uncontrollably as the roots pitilessly drowned him into the mud of the river shore… The sickening sound as Nott's body was ripped apart…

Harry shook his head in an attempt to get rid of those gruesome thoughts and, eager to put some distance between the office and him, quickly walked down the spinning staircase and stepped out in the corridor. From there, after a second's hesitation, he decided he needed some air and started walking towards the stairs.

He had already walked down two floors when a voice unexpectedly sounded in the deserted corridor.

"Psst! Boy!"

Startled, Harry wheeled around with his wand in his hand, to find Armando Dippet waving at him from a drunk monk's portrait.

"Closer!" called the frail Headmaster in a low voice, something like excitement shining in his large brown eyes. "Come closer!"

Harry put his wand back in his pocket and complied, wondering what Dippet wanted with him — especially now, right after he had caused most of the former headmasters to go completely crazy.

"That's a boy," said Dippet in an approving voice. "Now, I would have talked to you in the office, but the others would have shut me up. You see what they did with poor old Amadeus — the man must be still wondering if he's going senile."

Harry had a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back, his interest aroused by Dippet's mysterious hints.

"Professor, do you know something about the Forest?" he muttered cautiously, checking out of the corner of his eye that the other portraits were asleep.

"Yes and no," was Dippet's answer. "I know something about… About the Third Kind."

"The Third Kind?" Harry breathed.

"Yes. Those Pallas was telling you about… The ones that used to dwell in the Forest…"

Dippet no longer looked excited or mysterious. A very serious expression had set his face into a hard mask as he stared intently at Harry.

"We fear them," he went on sharply. "And because we fear them, we decided to erase them from our memories, and delete every mention of them in our books. Merlin knows I was against it…"

Dippet let out a sorrowful sigh. Harry didn't interrupt him, not wanting to spoil everything. He held his breath as Dippet finally resumed.

"When I was Headmaster," the old wizard slowly began, "books were my passion. I had hundreds of them. I had read them all, and I cherished them more than I would have cherished my own children. Among those books, an original copy of _History of the WizardKind._ The jewel of my collection…

"This book was one of the very few that mentioned the existence of the Third Kind. Most wizards have been avoiding saying their names for centuries, for fear they would come back. _History of the WizardKind _was the only one in which the war between the Third Kind and the wizardkind was told in detail. But I had just been appointed as Headmaster when the Minister for Magic came here and ordered me to hand over my book."

Dippet sighed again, pain etched in every line of his old face, as if he was telling the tale of his first-born's death. Harry drew a little closer to the portrait, heart pounding wildly in his chest, at the same time pulling out his wand and casting another Calfeutre Curse to avoid being overheard.

"She burnt it!" Dippet suddenly wailed, making Harry very glad he had thought of the Calfeutre Curse. "The filthy hag took my book and burnt it! Aaah! And I had to watch as the flames devoured my most precious possession!"

Dippet theatrically seized handfuls of his white hair and pulled on it, though not strongly enough for it to hurt. Harry shifted his weight from one leg to another, biting his lip in annoyance, and waited for the old man to stop his act.

"Professor?" he finally burst out — Dippet seemed to enjoy sobbing and lamenting too much to stop anytime soon —, "I'm very sorry to learn about your book being burnt, but please, could you give me more information about the Third Kind? Who are they? Why are they called so? What—"

"Patience, young man!" cried Dippet, sounding downright offended. "The Third Kind. Yes. Why are they called so? Because there are three kinds. The Muggles, the wizards, and them…"

At this point, Dippet's face suddenly went blank and the light in his eyes vanished. It only lasted for one fleeting second before he went back to looking exactly like his usual self — but Harry noticed it nonetheless.

"Now, you could have figured that out by yourself, couldn't you?" Dippet went on in a whining voice. "And who they are? Why, they're just that — the Third Kind. You're asking stupid questions, boy. Stupid questions indeed."

Harry surveyed Dippet closely for a few seconds. He was startled by the sudden change in his attitude — from serious to childish. The old Headmaster's face wasn't hard and solemn as it was a few minutes ago: on the contrary, it looked slightly confused, as if Dippet had received a violent blow on his head.

Had a charm gone off, preventing Dippet from saying too much…?

"Professor," said Harry prudently. "_Can_ you tell me more?"

Dippet looked at him with a helpless expression on his face, which accentuated his growing resemblance with a lost child.

"They made me swear," he whispered, his brown eyes filling with tears. "This knowledge is lost for ever. Even now I'm dead, the Unbreakable Vow prevents me from saying all I know. No one will ever remember. That's horrible! Horrible! And my books, my poor books…"

Dippet went on mumbling to himself with tears in his voice, but he was no longer making sense. Harry sighed dejectedly. He wouldn't learn anything more from the confused portrait. He bid Dippet goodnight, though he doubted the old Headmaster heard him, and lifted the Calfeutre Curse before walking away.

The sky outside was completely black; it was one of those dark nights when Harry doubted the sun would ever rise again, even though he knew the morning was a mere hour away. He walked at random on the grass bordering the lake, enjoying the feeling of the wind blowing forcefully around him and clearing his mind of all the jumbled thoughts that had been swirling around in it, ever since he had opened _Headmasters of Hogwarts._

But his respite was short. As he stood on the muddy shore of the lake, his gaze wandering over the troubled waters, he caught a whispering sound in the middle of the hissing and the wailing of the wind. A shiver of recognition ran up his back. Those whispers had been following him around at Hogwarts for a few nights now; they somehow sounded both patient and urgent, and though he couldn't catch the words, he still sensed how enticing and seductive they were… He would probably have thrown all caution to the winds and followed the voices to wherever they led a long time ago, if it hadn't been for the icy sensation of fear that twisted his stomach every time he heard them.

Fear…

Harry turned around to gaze at the imposing castle towering over the whole Hogwarts valley. The fear came from there. There, the whispers stopped sounding enticing. There, Harry felt dread chill his blood every time he thought of the dark trees in the core of the Forbidden Forest. Every stone of that castle was impregnated with the same fear that had driven the portraits to madness in the Headmistress's office.

And from the Forest came the hatred. The hatred of everything that was related to the wizarding world, except Harry. A hatred that, no matter what Dumbledore had said, had not subsided with time… It was just as fierce now as it had been the day when Pallas had died. It was palpable, literally oozing from every crack in the trees' bark.

Harry now stood precisely between the Forest and the castle. Between the hatred and the fear. Between the Third Kind and the wizardkind. In his mind and soul, they met and clashed.

And he had no idea which voice he should follow.

Hogwarts…

…or the Forest?

"The one time I looked half as bad as you do now, I had been forced to drink only water for a month."

The heavy pile of papers Harry was carrying around was towering over his head and prevented him from seeing what was in front of him. As he tried to steal a glance at the owner of the sarcastic voice, the papers swayed dangerously in his arms, almost causing him to let go — which would have probably been a greater disaster than his getting killed in a deadly mission. Cursing under his breath, he steadied the wavering tower of papers before peering carefully around it. Lance was sitting on a desk, blatantly unoccupied, and gazing with mild amusement at his working colleagues.

"Wonder why," grunted Harry as he staggered past him. "I've been carrying files and books all morning. Haven't eaten anything since yesterday night."

Passing by Lance Colman without a backward glance, Harry cautiously made his way in the busy Aurors Headquarters, all the while casting looks of longing at the individual boxes on either side of him — how much time before he would finally be able to leave the young Aurors' communal box and get one of these?

However, he hadn't taken three steps before he heard Lance jumping off the desk and joining him in a few strides.

"I pity you," said Lance lazily, falling into step with him. "Carrying files and books? And on an empty stomach? Ouch."

"You're lucky my arms are unavailable at the moment," snarled Harry in answer. "No need to rub in my face the fact that you've showed up here only an hour ago—"

"And that I got a sample of our dear Head Auror's melodious voice for the past half an hour," Lance finished lightly. "Massive bawling out. Impressive, really."

Harry merely grunted in answer; Lance fell silent and, to Harry's utter annoyance, proceeded to follow him as he entered one box after the other, each time leaving on the desk the file destined to the occupant of the box. By the time he had gone through a dozen boxes, Lance still idly trotting alongside him, his quite short reserve of patience had long run out.

"Okay!" he said loudly, dropping the still high pile of papers on a desk. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Lance quirked an eyebrow.

"What a way to address your—"

"Not in the mood," growled Harry. "Spit out whatever you have to say, and quick."

A smirk spread on Lance's long and pale face, giving the normally placid Auror such a devilish expression that Harry's curiosity was aroused in spite of his irritation. He then noticed, for the first time, that Lance was holding a folded piece of parchment and was carelessly tapping the edge of a desk with it; the would-be absentminded gesture was obviously designed to attract Harry's attention.

"What's that?" he said curiously.

"Oh, _this?_" asked Lance in fake surprise, glancing down at the parchment with his eyebrows raised as if he was seeing it for the first time. "Nothing, really… Just a search warrant."

Lance pocketed the parchment and clasped his hands in front of him, an innocent and cheerful grin plastered on his face.

"So, Harry!" he said in a voice higher than usual. "You really look tired, have you had a rough night or—"

"_Accio search warrant!_"

Lance laughed as the parchment flew out of his pocket and straight into Harry's outstretched hand.

"I knew you wouldn't resist the temptation…," he remarked idly. He put his hands back in his pockets and leant against the desk, watching Harry unfold the piece of parchment.

Harry scanned the parchment. It was indeed a search warrant delivered to junior Aurors Amy Redburn and Craig Johnson; they had to search Malfoy Manor some time on the afternoon, since Malfoy was suspected of keeping illegal potion ingredients.

"Amy and Johnson are searching Malfoy's house today?" He raised his head to stare at Lance, who was wearing a satisfied smirk. "So what?"

"When was your birthday?" Lance asked loudly, covering Harry's voice.

"Last July," Harry automatically answered, bemused by the unexpected question. "Why?"

Lance's smile widened, and he flicked his wand towards the parchment.

"Happy belated birthday then," he said lightly.

Completely mystified, Harry looked down at the parchment again.

Where a few seconds before was written _Amy Redburn and Craig Johnson,_ the words _Lance Colman and Harry Potter_ shone, the black ink still wet.

"I had to convince Amy and I gave a couple of bottles of Vodka to Johnson — and Robards' secretary took care of the rest," explained Lance as Harry stared at the parchment with wide eyes. "Amy and Johnson both said they were unavailable. We're in charge for the search of Malfoy Manor."

Harry looked up into Lance's face, which was alight with mischief.

"We're going to search Malfoy's house," he repeated slowly, a grin stretching his own lips.

"That's right," agreed Lance with a short laugh. "Would you, by any chance, be feeling like abusing your Auror power?"

"You have no idea," Harry retorted.

And leaving there the pile of files, he pocketed the search warrant and followed Lance out of the box, feeling more light-hearted than he would have thought possible when he had come back from Hogwarts.

The image of the murderous trees was far from his mind now.

Lance let out a whistle.

"Lord, Malfoy does himself proud, doesn't he?" he muttered, sounding vaguely disgusted.

"Tell me something I don't know," Harry replied distractedly as he observed the grounds and manor through the bars of the iron gates.

Indeed, the stone house nestled in the middle of neatly kept grounds screamed arrogance and wealth. Though massive and obviously from a time when strength mattered more than harmony, the imposing manor had an undeniably lordly look with its sharp lines, its stones gleaming as if they had been polished, and the colourful banners hanging from the lower windows. The grass of the grounds was as well kept as Petunia Dursley's once was: not a single blade escaped the impeccably smooth green carpet. A broad road of sandy gravel crossed the lawn from the gates to the main door of the manor.

Lance shook Harry out of his contemplation by seizing the handle of an ancient bell and tugging on it with all his might. The bell emitted a mournful, low-pitched note that trembled in the air for a few seconds; but before it had entirely faded, a house-elf appeared at the gate with a loud crack.

"Master Malfoy is having lunch with guests," squealed the small creature without even looking at them. "Master Malfoy can't receive you now. Come back later."

And before Harry or Lance had the time to say a word, the elf vanished.

Both Aurors exchanged a look, their eyebrows raised.

"Try again," Harry finally said; and as Lance reached for the handle, he took a few steps backward and pulled his hood over his head. It would probably be better if the elf didn't recognise him.

"The brat will pay for that," Lance muttered angrily. He pulled on the handle repeatedly this time, forcing the bell into a frenzied dance and sending a stream of panicked notes reverberating around the grounds.

After a whole minute of this the elf reappeared, its hands clasped over its ears and its face screwed up. Harry quickly reached through the bars and seized the house-elf's filthy pillowcase. The creature squeaked in shock and pain as it was pinned to the iron gates.

"Good afternoon," Lance said coolly to the terrified house-elf, still pressed against the gates by Harry's firm grip on its pillowcase. "We are Aurors, and we'd like to have a word with Mr. Malfoy. We don't care if he's having lunch with guests or if he's shagging his housekeeper in the attic — we want a word with him, _now._"

The house-elf was obviously too scared of Harry's menacing stance and too scandalised by Lance's crudeness to give a clear answer: all that came out was a tiny squeak. Then it started to shake its head frantically, its giant ears flapping, but neither Lance not Harry were in the mood to wait any longer. Just as Harry threateningly tightened his grip, Lance pulled out his wand.

"Just. Open. The gates," growled Lance, his wand pointed at the elf's throat.

With a strangled sob, the elf raised a shaky hand and snapped its fingers; and the gates were slowly pushed open by an invisible force, causing Harry to let go of the pillowcase. Abruptly freed, the house-elf fell to the ground and remained there, a dirty little heap shaking with sobs and wailing in despair. Harry felt a stab of pity for the miserable creature — but the fleeting feeling was quickly stifled when the gates suddenly froze and were violently slammed shut at another snap of the elf's fingers. Harry threw out an arm and seized the bars just in time; he forced his way through the closing gap between the two sides of the door, quickly followed by Lance. The gates closed right behind them with an angry grating noise.

The house-elf let out a frightened squeal at seeing them both inside the grounds and hastily disappeared with another crack.

"Like master, like servant," muttered Harry, mechanically brushing his shoulder.

Lance answered with a stream of curses involving the elf's reproductive organs, its mother and its grandmother, and he strode along the road with an expression suggesting he was about to demolish the manor stone after stone. Harry drew his wand out of its holster and followed his fuming team-mate along the road leading to the castle. This search looked promising.

Malfoy, obviously warned by his house-elf, was waiting for them on the doorstep of the manor. Harry was pleased to note that his normally pale face was red with anger and his disdainful features were twisted into an ugly frown.

"How dare you trespass into my land?" Malfoy shouted as soon as the two Aurors were within earshot. "What are your names? I'll talk about this to your superiors, count on that! Now tell me whatever it is you want, before I have you thrown out of the grounds! What—"

"My name is Colman," Lance interrupted coldly. "And I have a search warrant for this house."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed as he eyed Lance's grim face.

"A search warrant?" he repeated disdainfully. "And you think I'll believe—"

"You'd better believe it, Malfoy," said Harry brusquely. "Here it is."

Reaching inside his pockets, he got the warrant out and tapped it once with his wand, conjuring an exact copy of it. He handed the copy to Malfoy; but his former enemy didn't take it, busy as he was scrutinising Harry's hidden face.

"And you are…?" he asked curiously. "Your voice sounds familiar."

"Does it?" Harry asked in a nonchalant voice that was worthy of Lance himself. And throwing back his hood, he allowed the dull grey light of the cloudy afternoon to fall on his face.

Malfoy's eyes widened in recognition before narrowing again in dislike, and his hand jerked compulsively at his side, as if it longed to grab the wand resting in his chest pocket.

"Potter," he snarled; and that was all he said, to Harry's great surprise, before he grudgingly stepped aside to let them in.

Harry and Lance entered the manor, both holding their wands at their sides and ready to use them if Malfoy tried anything.

"Leave the door open," Harry sharply ordered as Malfoy reached toward the doorknob. Malfoy's pale features twitched in fury but he complied.

Harry had never entered Malfoy manor before. He found himself in a dark hallway, lit by torches fixed to the walls in bronze brackets, while the loopholes piercing the thick stone walls here and there half-heartedly let inside a feeble ray of pallid light. The tapestries hanging off the dark walls fluttered as a draught brushed past them, and he thought he caught a few malevolent eyes staring at him from the faded textile.

Malfoy's drawling voice pulled him out of his contemplation.

"Well, gentlemen, you'll excuse me while I'm informing my guests of your presence; then I'll be at your entire disposal."

He seemed to spit out the last words as if they tasted bitter in his mouth; something Lance noticed and took immediate advantage of, by uttering a condescending "Please do, my good man," that caused Malfoy's face to turn bright red. Harry coughed to hide his laughter — in which he wasn't very successful —, making sure Malfoy had heard him. The Slytherin snarled and abruptly wheeled about, both Aurors on his heels.

Malfoy led the pair of them to a large dining room, where about a dozen people were gathered around an immense table loaded with dishes. The room was filled with the buzzing of their conversations; but all sounds quickly died away as the guests took notice of the two Aurors standing behind their host.

"Well, dear friends and relatives, I have to leave you for the time being," Malfoy announced. "I have an unexpected… visit… and you'll understand that I can't leave these gentlemen on their own."

"Hurry up, Malfoy, we have a house to search," Lance said in a drawling voice.

Harry bit his lip to keep from smiling at the outraged expression on Narcissa Malfoy's face. The other guests, he noticed, were mainly friends of Malfoy's from school — Crabbe, Goyle, Milicent Bulstrode and her husband, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and his wife, and a girl Harry thought was called Daphne Greengrass — plus a shady lawyer whose name Harry couldn't remember, and finally one of Harry's fellow Aurors, a former Ravenclaw called Vincent Mastine.

Mastine averted his eyes when Harry's gaze fell on his face. The lawyer himself looked fidgety. Harry made a mental note to watch the pair of them carefully; the last thing they needed was Malfoy having contacts inside the Ministry.

"Harry?" called Lance's voice.

Harry turned his head to cast a questioning look at him; in answer, Lance gestured towards the guests frozen with surprise with a gracious smile.

"You do it," he pleasantly said.

Smiling slightly himself, Harry nodded and, turning to face the guests again, he spoke up.

"Nobody is to leave this room until the search is complete. You will all be kind enough to stay in your seats for a couple of hours. We may need to search each and every one of you, but I'll merely take your wands for now."

A quick collective disarming spell caused eleven wands to fly out of their owners' pockets and straight into his hand. He wordlessly handed them to Lance, who dropped them inside the bag he was carrying, before adding:

"Enjoy your meal."

And turning his back on the stunned guests, he followed Malfoy and Lance out of the dining room. Lance took care of closing the door and locking it with a couple of spells, visibly enjoying Malfoy's obvious fury as he did so.

"Perfect," Lance cheerfully said. "Now let's start this search."

And so they did.

The search was long and tedious. The manor was huge and concealed many passageways, niches and secret rooms; and if it hadn't been for Harry's sharpened sight and audition, which made him quick to notice a stone slightly out of place in a dark room or a hollow revealed by a different sound as they tapped walls and portraits, they would have missed half of the secrets of the house. Malfoy was barely able to contain his rage when Harry discovered a hidden cupboard full of prohibited ingredients — precisely what he had been suspected of hiding in the first place. Harry's smirk and Lance's idle comments only served to fuel the pure-blood's anger.

It went on for about an hour and a half until they started to search the south tower; the place was cold and damp, and visibly unoccupied.

"There's nothing here," grumbled Malfoy as Harry proceeded to rap the stones one by one with his knuckles.

"That's what you said for the cupboard and the fake ceiling," Harry retorted without even looking at him.

"True," said Malfoy in an oddly calm voice.

A cold feeling of wariness settled in Harry's stomach at Malfoy's sudden change of tone, and he and Lance both turned around to face him, their hands on the handle of the wands tucked in their belt.

Malfoy's hand was resting on a small carving on the wall, the satisfied smirk Harry knew so well and hated so much back on his face. Harry sprang forward, wand in his hand, but too late: Malfoy pushed the carving into the wall and the floor abruptly disappeared under the Aurors' feet.

Harry and Lance fell with similar screams of shock and horror, and the sound of Malfoy's triumphant laughter followed them as they dropped like stones in the darkness.

The fall seemed to last an eternity; time had stopped, black obscurity surrounded them, and the strong wind blowing around them was taking their breath away. Then, without warning, they reached the bottom.

The shock was terrible as they hit a surface that seemed harder than stone. Harry felt the impact reverberating into the marrow of his bones, and for a second a mist clouded his mind and veiled his vision.

A grumbling sound and a foreign pressure against his eardrums brought him back to his senses. What he had hit was the surface of a deep pool of stagnant water. Muddy, foul-smelling water, in which he was now sinking.

Harry convulsively jerked as the dirty water filled his mouth and nostrils. Extending both arms above his head, he swam upwards — or what he guessed was upwards, since he could barely see his hand outstretched in front of him; even his catlike sight wasn't of much help in the cold blackness of the tower. As he lowered his arms again, his fingers suddenly brushed against a large object floating in the water next to him.

Harry's first reaction was to swim away from the object; only Merlin knew what was rotting in this filthy water. _Probably the corpses of—_

Corpse. Lance. Where was Lance?

Harry reached out again until he found the large floating object. He was starting to feel dizzy from lack of air and his lungs were in fire; but he couldn't bring himself to leave Lance to die here — supposing that was Lance. He drew closer to the object.

Harry found a clothed arm — the object was indeed a body. His hand clenched around a wrist and he thought he could feel a pulse there, but he didn't trust his almost non-existent sense of touch. It may have only been him hoping there was a pulse. Unfortunately he couldn't continue his investigation, not here, not now — he needed air. The pressure on his lungs was quickly becoming unbearable. Grabbing his wand with numb fingers, he silently cast an Expelling curse on the body floating next to him, sending it hurling towards what he hoped was the surface. He followed, swimming as fast as he could. His head felt as if it was about to explode.

Harry unexpectedly broke the surface of the pool and avidly swallowed a few gulps of air. It rushed in his lungs, hissing past his teeth and drying his throat, but he needed to breathe too much to care. As his racing heart slowed down to a normal pace, he tried to take in his surroundings; and to his deep relief, he noticed his eyes seemed to get accustomed to the obscurity. He was able to distinguish the body floating next to him.

Reaching out, he grabbed it and pulled it closer to him. The body was face down, the clothed back being the only emerged part, and Harry turned it around with some effort so that the face was out of the water.

It was indeed Lance. His pale face stood out in the darkness, water dripping from his dark hair and running in muddy streams on his forehead and cheeks. His eyes were shut and Harry couldn't hear him breathing.

Harry raised his wand and shakily pointed it at Lance's chest.

"_Respiro!" _he croaked out.

Lance's ribcage swelled as the air was forced in his lungs by the spell. Harry repeated the word several times, until Lance's body suddenly jerked and he started to cough out the dirty water filling his lungs. Harry helped him to hold himself up as he took deep, rattling breaths.

"What the h-hell happened?" Lance coughed out at last.

"Something that probably wouldn't have happened if you had watched Malfoy carefully enough," Harry answered curtly.

Lance took the rebuke in silence, though he was clearly vexed by Harry's remark.

"H-how were y-you able to s-stay conscious af-after that f-fall?" he stammered, shivering all over.

"I'm tough," Harry answered distractedly. The lit wand he was holding over his head could barely pierce the darkness. He was just able to make out something that looked like a narrow stone jetty, at a few feet from them.

"Here, try to swim that way," he called at Lance over his shoulder.

"Try being the k-key word," Lance replied from behind him. "B-bloody hell, I'm freezing."

"Yes, it's cold, isn't it?" said a triumphant voice, coming from the jetty Harry was aiming at.

Upon hearing the familiar drawl both Harry and Lance stopped swimming, only making the indispensable moves to hold themselves up in the water. A shadow standing on the jetty unveiled a lantern and a golden light fell on Malfoy's joyous face. Behind him, the open stone wall slid back into place, blocking the exit. Malfoy had obviously only just got in.

"_Expelliarmus!"_ Malfoy chanted nonchalantly.

Harry and Lance were too busy doing everything they could to stay at the surface to counter Malfoy's spell. With an icy feeling of dread Harry felt his wand escape his slippery fingers, just as Lance's shot out of the water and came to rest in Malfoy's palm as well.

"Here we are," said Malfoy lightly as he pocketed the two wands. "Now it's time for _payback._"

He stepped forward and crouched on the edge of the jetty, eyeing the two Aurors with an expression that was nothing short of gleeful.

"Potter," he laughed as his eyes met Harry's. "Potter, Potter, Potter. Always where you shouldn't be. I doubt you will ever understand that you _can't_ beat me."

"Can't I?" growled Harry. "Disarmed and swimming in your filthy pool, maybe I'll have a hard time fighting you, though I don't doubt I can still win. With my wand and on the same ground as you are, I don't give you ten seconds."

"I bet for seven," Lance added, "but you let me finish him off."

Harry glanced furtively towards his team-mate and was startled to see the look of pure hatred twisting his normally calm features. He didn't doubt Lance would kill Malfoy with his bare hands at the moment.

Malfoy let out a derisive peal of laughter that echoed in the dark belly of the tower.

"Beat me?" he repeated scornfully. "Finish me off? Gentlemen, I only have to do _that—"_ He raised his wand, and an invisible power suddenly pushed on top of Harry and Lance's heads, almost forcing them underwater, "—and no one will ever see Potty and his new lapdog again."

Malfoy maintained the spell, laughing as the two Aurors struggled against it.

"Potter, you're pathetic. I have reduced you to a wreck, an only half-human monster, and yet you still come to taunt me? Bow to your master, you freak."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Harry panted, concentrated on throwing off the power pressing down on his head and shoulders.

A strange glint came to illuminate Malfoy's grey eyes at Harry's words.

"Unable to sleep?" he whispered, his eyes glued to Harry's, something like avidity in his voice. "Unable to feel any physical pain? Or the cold, or the heat? Haunting the cemeteries at night? You're a freak, Potter…"

Harry took a sharp breath at Malfoy's detailed description of symptoms he thought were classified information.

"How—"

"I have good contacts at St. Mungo's, Potter," Malfoy murmured, self-satisfaction dripping from every word he uttered.

"And why do you assume you have anything to do with my — with all that?" Harry snarled.

"Can't you remember, Potter?" Malfoy asked pleasantly, coming to sit casually on the edge of the jetty. "Don't you remember what started it all? The war? The taking of Hogwarts? The race in the Forbidden Forest? The four Cruciatus Curses?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat. Few knew of the mad pursuit that had followed the Death Eaters' victory. Even fewer knew that Harry had been submitted to four Cruciatus Curses. Neither Ron nor Parletoo had had the time to spread that knowledge around before being plunged in a deep coma. Hermione wouldn't have said anything either. And the four other people who knew about it were the casters of the curses, and they were dea—

_Not all of them. Three were killed by the trees. The fourth one…_

"You're the fourth Death Eater," said Harry, watching incredulously Malfoy's gleeful face. "The caster of the fourth curse."

"Indeed I am," answered Malfoy, a fierce joy now illuminating his pale face.

He lowered his wand and the pressure on top of Harry and Lance's heads vanished. He then leant forward and rested his weight on his forearms. His head was level with Harry's. He would have touched him if he had outstretched his arm.

"It was almost sensual, Potter," he whispered. "Feeling your pain at the tip of my wand. There was one single second, at the beginning, when I was able to see your face before you started running again. It's the best memory of my life. And all this time my wand was vibrating slightly in my hand, feeding on your pain. I loved the feeling so much I didn't lift the curse. I kept you under the curse for _two months,_ Potter.

"Then that day, after the Dark Lord vanished, I was hiding among the other students… and I was watching you, pale and skinny, and half-crazy from the pain _I _inflicted upon you. I enjoyed the sight for a few moments before I understood someone was bound to track the spell from you to me. So I lifted it. You were talking to McGonagall, remember? And you fainted. For a few minutes I really hoped I had succeeded in killing you… But you had to survive, didn't you?"

Harry kept his eyes fixed on Malfoy's. As his enemy advanced in his telling, the shock of learning his current state was mainly due to the man crouching in front of him was now slowly giving way to a burning hatred. It was boiling in the pit of his stomach, spreading into his limbs and running in his veins. It was infecting every particle of his brain. It was audible in every beat of his heart pounding in his ears. An animal desire for revenge was taking over his reason; and Harry now wanted nothing else than tear Malfoy's throat open with his bare teeth and watch as the blood spurted out of his mutilated body.

"…You had to survive… I was so disappointed when the Healers announced you would live. But it doesn't matter… Your life was miserable enough for me to be satisfied… And I'm going to kill you now…"

Harry became suddenly aware that the water was swirling around him, and small waves were rising and coming to lick the top of the jetty. It was as if his anger poured out of him and troubled the calm of the water. The air was starting to swirl around his head too, obeying a commanding voice that it was the only one to hear.

It mattered not if Malfoy was armed and he was not; the power growing inside him and enveloping his whole body was stronger than any wand. It mattered not if he was neck-deep in water and Malfoy was on the firm ground; the water was under his command. Malfoy was going to die.

"…I'm going to kill you, you and your pathetic new friend, but before that I'll make you feel sorry you ever crossed my threshold. _Crucio!_"

The red beam of light hit Harry on the forehead and his scar exploded. For the first time since the end of the war, his body regained its former sensitivity, his sensory nerves came back to life and allowed the atrocious, searing pain to course through him — for one single second.

As quickly as it had appeared, the pain vanished; and it was as if the last seal maintaining Harry's young power enclosed within him had just been broken. A roar filled the tower as a fierce wind began to swirl around, biting at the ancient stones and angrily tearing off Malfoy's cloak. An enormous wave arose from under Harry's fingertips and hurled itself at the jetty; Harry caught Malfoy's wide and fearful eyes and his terrified scream before the wall of water crashed on him, drowning the lantern.

Harry wasn't hampered at all by the complete darkness. A second wave flung him on the jetty, where Malfoy lay, coughing and spluttering and groping around for the wand he had dropped. Harry fell on top of him and pinned him to the drenched stones. For a fleeting second he distinguished in Malfoy's horrified eyes the reflection of a green-eyed white wolf, howling with fury; then he attacked.

A horrible scream echoed in the dark tower, but it soon died in a sickening gurgling as blood poured out of Malfoy's severed carotid artery. Harry leapt off his enemy's body, which was twitching convulsively as life flowed out of his open throat, and mechanically ran his tongue over his lips. The insipid taste of Malfoy's blood filled his mouth.

The fury that had been running in his veins like scorching lava was now fading away. A tad sobered, Harry looked down at the fur-covered paws, strikingly white against the dark stones, which supported his weight. He had unconsciously transformed. And not only was the full moon a week away, but it also was the _middle of the afternoon._ It didn't make sense.

A heavy breathing made him turn around; Lance was hauling himself up on the jetty. His team-mate met his eye and instantly froze, fear visible on his face.

Harry averted his eyes with a noisy sigh. He could feel the power slowly leaking away from him. The wind had ceased and the water was now lapping peacefully at the walls of the tower. It was over.

Harry now felt so weak he could barely stand; he knew he was about to transform back into a man. His legs shook, threatening to yield under his weight, and he had to lie down on the floor drenched in water and blood. As a shudder shook his whole body, he rolled over on his back — just in time to see Lance pointing a wand at him, a hex on his lips.

"Inc — _Holy shit!_"

Lance dropped the wand in astonishment, and Harry understood his transformation had finally ended. He sighed as a little strength came back to his limbs and as he found himself able to prop himself up on his elbows. He pushed his glasses back up his nose in a mechanical motion and sat up, catching his breath.

He lifted his head to stare at Lance, who stood stock-still, mouth gaping and eyes wide open. He had rarely seen him lose his composure so completely.

"I doubt I really need to say it," said Harry tiredly, "but I'd appreciate it if you could keep that to yourself."

Lance nodded, the ghost of a smile grazing his lips, and hesitantly outstretched his hand to help Harry to his feet. Harry gratefully took it and hauled himself up with some effort.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side," said Lance in a hushed voice.

He was looking at something behind Harry. Turning on his heels, Harry caught sight of Malfoy's mutilated body, bathing in a mixture of muddy water and of his own blood.

"I see what you mean," murmured Harry.

Walking round the corpse, he reached in a few strides the opposite wall, which had been forcibly opened under the combined influence of the furious wind and the near-tidal waves. He and Lance ventured in the dark passageway beyond, hoping it would lead them out of the manor.

They hit a cul-de-sac after about twenty minutes of climbing worn-out stone steps in an almost complete darkness. Harry felt around him until he had found a wooden trapdoor above his head. It easily swung upwards and the sunlight flowed inside the passageway, forcing them to shut their eyes against the sudden aggression.

Once they had got used to the daylight again, however, they lost no time in getting out of the dark and damp tunnel, emerging in what looked like an inner courtyard.

"Well, this wasn't a complete waste of time," Lance commented as he looked down at his muddy robes. "We found the ingredients—" Here he held up the bag still containing the guests' wands and the vials they had found in the secret cupboard. "—And we made the little scumbag wild with anger for an hour and a half, until we were… invited to visit that tower the hard way."

"And we rid the earth of the blonde and stinking wart it had on the ass," added Harry, bent double and his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

"Very true," Lance agreed with a faint smile. Then he let out a noisy sigh as he considered his bag. "Should we get back inside and give those wands back to their owners?" he asked, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

Harry shook his head. "No. We're going back to the Ministry. We need to report Malfoy's death… He fell down to the bottom of the tower and some unknown animal cut his throat down there before escaping through the open passageway. An animal he was probably keeping illegally, come to think of it. They can easily check that out. If Malfoy's guests want their wands back, they will have to fetch them at the Ministry."

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Lance answered with a thoughtful nod of his head.

But even now that he was apparently back to his lazy, infuriatingly nonchalant self, Harry felt in Lance's stance and in the furtive glances he sent his way that he would never be the same around him. He honestly couldn't blame him — it wasn't everyday one saw his team-mate transform into a wolf and rip out another wizard's carotid artery.

Still, he thought as he headed back for the iron gates, he would miss Lance's discreet but loyal friendship.

_Her eyes snapped open._

_The soft breeze that had been blowing since the beginning of times was unusually troubled; it hissed in panic-stricken whispers as it rushed through a broken windowpane into the deserted corridors of the old house. _

_The wind was bearer of important news…_

_He had used his power. His full power_

_Perhaps he had even transformed._

_Their deliverance was near._


	11. A Slytherin, a Gryffindor

** A/N: To those who received this chapter alert for the second time: I added an interlude between Chapters 7 and 8, thus fucking up the update system. Sorry about that. Chapter 11 is finished and being beta-ed, so you'll soon get a real update.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: A Slytherin, A Gryffindor**

The boards creaked sinisterly under Harry's feet as he paced in his living room; the feverish energy boiling in his veins made him unable to sit still for more than two minutes in a row. He had decided against going out for one of his usual strolls after his eventful afternoon at Malfoy Manor, thinking it was best to act as normally as possible for the time being — especially since Lance now knew something was terribly wrong with him. However, he had not foreseen how difficult it would be for him to stick to that decision. The velvety sky spangled with twinkling stars and the soft breeze brushing against his windows were a real provocation, and he had ended up closing his shutters and his curtains in order to stop himself coming back to the window, again and again, like a thirsty beast drawn by the sound of running water.

Harry was a little alarmed at his own reaction; it evoked nothing less than withdrawal. His hands were shaking and sweat was forming in droplets on his brow. His pacing was getting quicker and jerkier, as if his legs had a mind of their own and were trying to escape his will and run as fast as possible out of the flat and into the open air. He could tell that a little of the power that had run through him in waves when he had transformed, a few hours ago, was still lingering in his limbs… He knew that it was the source of the fever that had been consuming him ever since he had come back to the flat. Urging him to get out. To run. That he was sure of: he needed to run — but to where? He had to flee — from what? To search — for what? He wasn't sure — he didn't know — the answers were there, within his reach, but the words leaked between his fingers as soon as he tried to grab them. Those voices, that were both strange and familiar, weren't loud enough… These instincts that prompted him to run, run and never stop, weren't strong enough… He couldn't just give in to them, without knowing first what was what he was looking for, or trying to escape.

He ran a slightly trembling hand through his hair. Merlin, he was going crazy…

"I need to figure it out," he whispered aloud. Yes. It was becoming an absolute necessity. It was no longer a vague curiosity that urged him to discover what he really was: it was indispensable for his _sanity._ He wouldn't be able to go on like that for very long. One day, he would snap. Abruptly. And given the recent events — Malfoy's brutal murder — he could see only two possible outcomes for such an occurrence: his death, or others'. If he had to choose he'd rather survive, but the idea of going insane and killing people left and right, until he was cornered and finished off like a wild animal, didn't hold much appeal to him either.

"Where should I start looking, though?" he murmured to himself, finding oddly reassuring the sound of his own hoarse voice in the heavy silence. "The Hogwarts Library is no good… All information seems to have been erased from the books… The portraits go berserk when I do so much as _mention_ the Forbidden Forest… I guess I'll have to go back into the Forest myself…"

Harry stopped in his pacing, and as the boards groaned under his weight one last time before falling silent, he was able to hear the blood pounding unnaturally fast and loud in his ears. There. He had his answer. He should go back into the Forest. He had been in there a lot of times, so it wouldn't be a problem.

Then why the _hell_ was he so scared?

He was ashamed to admit it, even to himself; he was absolutely terrified at the thought of going back into the Forest. It was ludicrous! After all he didn't have a problem with walking in the shade of even the most hateful trees a few months ago. Had the fear that impregnated the walls of Hogwarts finally influenced him? But no, that was a stupid idea… Hogwarts had not begun to fear the Forest two days ago; it was a very, very old dread, so why would he not have been affected at all as a student? Why the hell would he be scared _now, _all of sudden?!

"I guess it's something to do with me too," he concluded bitterly, as his tense, nearly frantic state and the many questions swirling around in his mind caused his temper to rise. "The world is perfectly normal, I'm just the freak who does everything wrong. Nothing out of the ordinary, actually!"

With an angry gesture of his left arm, he knocked over a tall candlestick standing on his coffee table, next to a pile of files he was supposed to go through and synthesise for the following day. The candlestick neatly broke into three pieces as it hit the ground with a loud chiming sound. Harry impatiently kicked away one of the pieces and watched it roll across the floor and under a squat sideboard. Dust was rising in clouds as the bronze stick rolled over the spotted floor… When was the last time this place had been cleaned up?

_When Hermione came here to do the housework, probably…_

Harry turned away, his shoulders slumped as he pushed the picture of Hermione dressed in old maculated clothes with a scarf over her hair out of his mind. Now was not the moment to regret his past friendship with her. This part of his life was over, an arrow with a tail of green feathers had put an abrupt end to it. But even so, he wouldn't have minded her help right now; after all, as an Unspeakable, she might have heard things he would never hear anywhere else…

But then again, Hermione's help was not an option. He would have to solve the mystery of his identity by himself, which meant he would have to go back in the Forest, eventually — but not now. Not yet. He wasn't ready. He — he couldn't — it wasn't even a question of courage, he knew his legs would refuse to carry him further than the edge of the Forest. Maybe next time he would transform…?

Yes! That was it. Under his wolf form, it was likely that he would no longer feel the influence of the castle. Of course he doubted he would be able to voluntarily transform again, since he had no clue how he had done it at Malfoy Manor — not to mention that it would not be a wise thing to do with Lance as his permanent partner — so he would have to wait for the next full moon. That was a week from now.

Halting again, Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A great weight seemed to have lifted off his chest; he had a plan. He was no longer walking blindly in the darkness and wondering what on earth was happening to him. He was not passively accepting his condition: he was being active again.

A slight smile grazed his lips as he distractedly reached for the whisky bottle that sat on his coffee table. Only a few drops of the amber liquid remained in the bottom of the bottle; he drained them in one gulp. Glass met wood with a loud chink as he put the empty bottle back on the table, and the clear sound seemed to shake a little the stifling silence that lay over the darkened flat. His spirits rising, Harry grabbed the first file on the high pile and sat on the couch, knowing that at least the tedious task would get him through the night.

"Being a freak has its advantages," he muttered as he opened the file. He took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive into a bottomless precipice, and started to work.

* * *

It was five in the morning when he finished the synthesis of the last file. The fever of the night had dropped, leaving him calm and oddly refreshed. He gathered the files in a pile again and used his wand to shrink it until it fitted in his pocket; he would carry it at work later. He then went inside his kitchen to chew unenthusiastically on a slice of bread. He needed less food than most men his age, but if he was unfortunate enough to forget to eat, his carcass of a body would not resist very long. Harry thoughtfully contemplated his hands for a little while. From their originally thin form they had gone bony, with long, thin and flexible fingers; the tendons on the back of his hand appeared at the slightest contraction of his fingers, and under the pale skin ran several blue veins, unnaturally visible. It was strange to think those hands belonged to a twenty-one year old. 

"Okay, try not to starve to death, that would be a good start," Harry muttered to himself, a grimace of distaste on his face as his eyes swept over his own skinny figure. And after a slight hesitation, he gulped down with some effort the rest of the bread.

At seven, having breakfasted, showered and thrown on his back some fresh clothes, Harry gladly stepped out of his grim flat and double-locked the door. He was not used to coming down the stairs at this hour — usually he would go to the Ministry straight from wherever he had spent the night — so he was surprised to meet a few of his neighbours on his way down. A couple of children with schoolbags hanging from their shoulders flattened themselves against the wall to let him through, their eyes wide in apprehension as they eyed that pale and thin stranger wrapped in an immense black raincoat. If Harry was a little startled by their evident fear at the sight of him, he found even less enjoyable the reaction of some old lady on the third floor, who stared him up and down with a frown and answered Harry's cautious "Morning" by a shrill, "Do you youngsters think you'll be more attractive by starving yourselves?"."

"Way to start a good day," Harry grumbled through clenched teeth as he forcefully pulled on the handle of the heavy door at the bottom of the stairs. Once in the courtyard he shot a quick glance at the cottony fog that hid the sky from him, then, shielded from prying eyes by the gloomy darkness of the November morning, he shut his eyes and prepared to Apparate… If one could call 'Apparition' these moments when he travelled through the skies, weightless and inconsistent, carried by winds and clouds.

Had he kept his eyes open, perhaps he would have seen the figure crouching among the leafless plants of a nearby flower bed, drowned into obscurity, perfectly immobile as it stared intently at him.

But Harry did not notice anything as he concentrated on his destination. As expected, a gust of wind came to envelop him and he dissolved in it, smoothly, naturally…

He appeared in the Atrium, which was already buzzing with life and activity despite the early hour, and for once, his entry wasn't followed by curious eyes. On his way to the lifts, he caught whispered conversations about Malfoy's death and the beast he was keeping in his tower; actually, it seemed to be what everyone was talking about. Malfoy was dead. Some sounded relieved, some shamelessly happy, some worried about what was to become of the family's fortune. Apparently Malfoy had been in debt to quite a few people — which was the probable consequence of his being cleared of all charges in the various trials he had been involved in.

The conversation was animated in the small room where a dozen Ministry workers were waiting for a lift. A few people even asked Harry his opinion on the matter, knowing that he had been the one to report Malfoy's death; Harry had to suppress a smirk when he answered he wasn't allowed to divulge information. He had not thought of Malfoy's death since the day before, as the deepening mystery surrounding his identity had been his main preoccupation; but now he couldn't help experiencing a kind of fierce joy when he recalled the terror in Malfoy's grey eyes before his throat was ripped open. And judging from what he was hearing around him, he doubted many people would sincerely mourn the little piece of garbage.

As if in answer to that last thought, the murmurs abruptly died away around him and Harry's wandering eyes fell on a thin and haughty figure, dressed in black, who had just entered the room. His eyes met a pair of icy blue ones, set in a pale and pointed face that was framed by a heavy mass of ashen blonde hair, tied back in a severe bun. At once the woman, that he recognised as Narcissa Malfoy, hardened her gaze and her mouth thinned. Lifting her chin even higher than before, Mrs. Malfoy walked up to him, followed by all the guests who had been around her son's table the day before, and who had come into the room right behind her.

People hurried out of the way as Mrs. Malfoy joined the young Auror, her black but elegant clothes swirling slightly in her wake. He noted that her eyes were dry but slightly bloodshot.

"Mr. Potter." She spat his name with all the disgust she could muster without losing her dignified pose.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry answered coolly as he locked gazes with the widow. "What can I do for you?"

Narcissa's delicately chiselled features were distorted in an expression of supreme disdain when she replied. "Apparently, you thought fit to take away our wands. And since I have no intention to live like a Muggle just to please a Ministry employee, I have come here to complain to your superior."

She paused, and her last sentence came out as a barely audible murmur; yet the hatred dripping from each of her intonations was oddly perceptible. "You do not know who you are defying."

"I am not defying anybody," Harry said calmly, not bothering to keep his voice down. "_Ministry employees_ have orders, and my orders were to take away your wands; given the circumstances, and the way the situation complicated itself, I clearly couldn't give them back to you without referring to my superior first."

"Why you little—" blurted out Vincent Mastine, the Auror who had been invited at lunch by Malfoy the previous day.

"If you want your wands back," Harry went on loudly, silencing the other Auror, "you'll need to ask them to Gawain Robards. Second floor," he added, mockingly obliging.

Mastine's jaw contracted visibly and he clenched his fists. Harry thought for a minute that Mastine would fling himself at him and, in an almost negligent gesture, his hand came up to draw back the hem of his cloak that masked the wand hanging from his waist. His eyes remained planted in the other Auror's as he did so. Mastine flinched but didn't drop his gaze to the ground — acknowledging the silent threat but refusing to bend to it.

A cool feminine voice sounded in the room, and its everlasting serenity contrasted so oddly with the ambient tension that, although it wasn't loud, everyone started.

"_Atrium."_

Both Aurors interrupted their staring contest as everyone rushed to the lifts that had come into view. Harry turned his back on the group without wondering any further and slipped inside a lift that was already half full. Narcissa Malfoy and the ten guests trotting on her heels like a brood of lost chicken followed him inside.

As the lift noisily made its way up, Harry couldn't hold back the amused smirk at seeing the efforts of Mrs. Malfoy's little crowd to ignore him with as much dignity as they could muster, considering they were all pressed against each other in the crowded lift. Blaise Zabini was soon grimacing with disgust as a fat and sweaty man, bearing an impressive moustache, decided to chat him up after jovially apologising for standing on his toes. Millicent Bulstrode towered over everyone, her husband included, by several inches; a fact that seemed to immensely disgruntle said husband. Daphne Greengrass on the other hand, being one of the smallest occupants of the lift, was in constant danger of being crushed — and by the time they had reached the floor immediately above the Atrium, she looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Oh yes, Draco Malfoy's friends were offering a rather amusing view to Harry. The only one who actually managed to stay calm and composed was his mother… Narcissa Malfoy held her head high, her gaze lost into space and her pale face absolutely expressionless. Harry's smirk faded when he remembered that she was without a husband and without a son now. A nasty little voice muttered in his head, _Better be alone than in bad company…_ However, for the first time since he had finally given Malfoy the death he deserved, he felt a slight pang of guilt.

As if she had felt his gaze on her, Narcissa Malfoy abruptly turned her head and stared right back at him, and Harry experienced a shock as he met two eyes brimming over with a violent, _murderous_ fury. Anyone could have told that she was after whoever had shed her son's blood, and she would not rest until they were dead. Harry had not been scared of another human being for years — but there, as he stared into Narcissa Malfoy's face, he felt the once familiar feeling of icy dread settle in the pit of his stomach. He knew he could easily overpower her in terms of magic, but he had none of the rage that showed in that woman's blue eyes; and he knew how much the desire to _win_ was important in any magical fight. It often made the difference between victory and defeat.

He had no desire whatsoever to hurt a woman who had already lost everything because of him; he had not sunk that low. She, on the other hand, had nothing to lose. She was dangerous. She should never learn that he was her son's murderer, no matter how much Malfoy deserved the fate he had known. Harry applied himself to ridding his face of all traces of guilt or unease, setting a blank, undecipherable expression against her piercing gaze… Mrs. Malfoy stared unblinkingly at him for a few terribly long minutes, and Harry barely succeeded in restraining himself from looking away — until the plump moustached man inadvertently pushed him as he tried to extricate his vast body from the still crowded lift, and into the corridor of the third floor. Harry felt a little ashamed to admit to himself that he was glad to have a pretext for finally breaking eye-contact.

He didn't meet Mrs. Malfoy's eyes again until they reached the following floor, where the Aurors Headquarters were situated.

Harry managed to get out of the lift first, and he soon heard the eleven guests of the late Malfoy heir following suit. He did his best to ignore them as he walked up to the Headquarters, but he thought he could still feel Narcissa Malfoy's eyes burning the back of his neck.

He had just entered the Headquarters, where only a few Aurors were gathered — most of them just recently qualified, since the elder Aurors liked their comfort and working so early was apparently not considered as 'comfortable' — when Lance's voice called his name from his left.

Inwardly wondering what kind of circumstance could have prompted Lance to get out of bed before eight, Harry turned to his team mate. He quickly noted that the other Auror obviously hadn't got much sleep the previous night. His normally pale skin had an unhealthy yellowish glow, and his wide eyes expressed that feverish activity that often glints in the eyes of people desperately needing rest but not actually feeling sleepy. Lance glanced behind Harry and caught a glimpse of the little group that they had seen the day before, gathered around Malfoy's table.

"They're here. Good," he said curtly, addressing Harry once more. "I've spoken to Hampton, who referred to Robards, who said you were to give them their wands back. I've checked them — no illegal spell in the past week. That's all we can do for now."

Harry nodded, a little unsettled by Lance's brisk tone.

"You — err — you've already sorted everything out, I see," he noted, somewhat shyly. "Sorry, I should've arrived sooner."

"Don't worry about it," Lance interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I couldn't sleep anyway…"

"Now that I'm here you can go get some sleep though," Harry suggested.

For a fleeting second, Lance's pallid face seemed to darken with hostility, or fear — Harry couldn't exactly tell. The shadow was gone in a blink of the eye, though, as if Lance had forcefully pushed to the back of his mind the shocking memories of their adventures in Malfoy's tower, and he merely nodded at Harry's suggestion.

"Common cubicle," he said as he walked past him and towards the exit.

"Okay, thanks," Harry called at Lance's retreating back. To his great surprise, Lance slowed down and looked over his shoulder; and there was a little of the old nonchalance in his voice when he answered, "You're welcome."

Once the door had closed behind Lance, Harry turned to Narcissa Malfoy and her guests again.

"Apparently I'm to give you your wands back," he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "Please follow me."

He wheeled about and, the eleven visitors on his heels, walked up to the cubicle Lance had indicated. Most of the space in the room was taken up by a long table, around which stood a dozen of mismatched chairs; Harry held out a hand and the visitors halted.

"You stay there," he said curtly. "I'll call every one of you in turn."

He walked alone to the end of the table, where the wands had been piled in a messy heap; he quickly scanned the long list waiting next to the pile of wands: it bore the description of each wand and the name of their owner, who was expected to sign in a blank rectangle when their wand was given back to them.

Harry read aloud the first name. "Brandon, Ethan."

One by one, as Harry called their name, the visitors came to sign the parchment and Harry would run a quick test, checking that the wand they asked for was really theirs. Most of them were quiet and docile during the whole process — signing, suffering the test and taking their wand without a word — so much so that Harry barely paid attention to who he was talking to.

"Greengrass, Daphne."

The former Slytherin walked up to him, a sullen expression on her face, and grabbed the quill he was handing her to sign the parchment. Their fingers brushed for a quarter of second — and at once Harry experienced a shock, similar to an electrical wave, that reverberated in his whole body.

He froze, his hand still extended, and stared at the young woman bent over her piece of parchment. As if on cue, Daphne halted in the act of writing her name and looked up, a startled expression on her features. Harry's eyes widened behind his glasses when he saw she looked as shocked as he felt. Had she experienced a similar reaction to the fleeting contact of their skins? But soon his stomach contracted with unease: she was practically _devouring_ him with her eyes. Her whole face was alight with frightening avidity as she stared at him, apparently taking in the smallest details of his face, as if deciphering a fascinating enigma.

Her intense scrutinising was unnerving; it actually felt a little like a brutal Legilimency attack. In fact, Harry suddenly found himself throwing his thoughts and memories to the back of his mind, gathering his rather average skills in Occlumency in order to present a wall of blank indifference to Daphne's eager staring. He had no idea what this woman was after, but he had better be careful…

Daphne's expression quickly turned from excitement to puzzlement, probably from seeing Harry's face go suddenly blank. She opened her mouth to say something, but Harry tore his eyes from hers and caught sight of the quill suspended in mid air, the ink drying at the point.

"You should sign that paper, Greengrass," he said in a voice as even as he could make it. He almost kicked himself when he realised he had called her by her last name, something only Robards took the liberty of doing, but she didn't seem to have noticed. The shock she had visibly felt appeared to have left her confused and even slightly dazed, and she mechanically lowered the quill to the parchment to sign.

Harry cleared his throat and seized the next wand on the pile.

"Nine inches, beech tree, unicorn hair," he read out loud. "Is that correct?"

She mumbled her assent and he handed her the wand with his left hand, all the while drawing his own with his right. She grasped the wand handle just as Harry tightened his grip on it, so that they were both holding one extremity of the thin wooden stick. He touched her wrist with the tip of his own wand and muttered:

"_Haberis Daphne Greengrass_."

A blue halo shone briefly around Daphne's wand, proving that it was indeed hers. Harry quickly released her wand and sent her off with a slightly hoarse, "You can go now." He still would not look at her; and he felt an incomprehensible relief at the sound of her walking away.

With a slight shake of his head to dissipate his lingering malaise, Harry went back to the task at hand.

* * *

The following week was rather eventless for Harry. He and Lance had to testify for Malfoy's death, but fortunately they had had the time to think of a decent cover story; and after this single convocation the matter was definitely taken out of their hands. They were still working as team mates, and although Lance was evidently seeing Harry in a different light, he didn't let anything in his behaviour reveal that their friendship had been altered. Harry was grateful for this. 

Harry's thoughts were almost constantly haunted by Daphne Greengrass's inquiring face. Why had he felt that weird shock when he had touched her? Most importantly, why had _she _felt it? What was the nature of this strange bond that had linked them, briefly, before Harry had gathered his Occlumency defences? He had never paid any attention to Greengrass in his school years… She used to be a Slytherin but she was not a close friend of Malfoy's. The only reason he remembered her was that her name was called immediately after Hermione's at the beginning of lessons; and if his memory was good, she wasn't very talented at magic.

A quick research had taught him that Daphne Greengrass lived on her own in a small town, several miles north of London. She was running a day nursery for magical children and apparently had no other activity. Harry somehow found difficult to picture that petite, almost frail girl taking care of babies who were always put in danger by their own magical power. Yet, apart from that, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about Miss Daphne Greengrass.

However, as the full moon approached, and with it the time when Harry would go back in the Forest at last, the 'Daphne' mystery was pushed into the background. Harry had sent an owl to Professor McGonagall, warning her that he would transform in the Hogwarts grounds that night; she had simply replied that he was expected at breakfast in the Great Hall the following morning.

Harry felt inexplicably, stupidly, ridiculously nervous. The full moon was usually the best night of the month; a stroll in the Forest would not be enough to ruin his pleasure, would it? Of course he had no idea what he was about to discover in there… He might find there all the answers he had been looking for, just as he might find nothing at all except whispering trees and green light, and go back to the castle just as puzzled as he had been when entering the Forest. And oddly enough, he did not know which perspective appealed to him more. He was not sure he wanted to have anything to do with that… that kind — _the forgotten, the beaten, but the hateful kind _— that rejected all that he had thought he belonged to, until very recently… He thought of McGonagall, of the Hogwarts castle; he thought of Quidditch, of the Weasleys, of Dumbledore, of his parents… All things that were or used to be so important to him, and that were part of the wizarding world… Did he really want to throw that away?

His nervousness was such that, the day before the full moon, he barely paid attention to the case he and Lance were working on. They were both in the common cubicle and occupied a corner of the vast table, doing their best to ignore the constant background noise made by other Aurors pacing, discussing, laughing or yelling at clumsy apprentices — curiously enough, one thing Harry had noticed was that the youngest Aurors always were the most odious to beginners. It usually amused him to see these colleagues of his, who were being bossed around not so long ago by everyone in the Auror Department, take it upon themselves to make the apprentices "get back into line". However, right now he wished those unfortunate novices would go and have their heads ripped off elsewhere.

"Now they are obviously magical animals… No Muggle beast would have such a peculiar behaviour. Problem is, according to the information we've gathered, they don't belong to any known kind of magical beasts. And we have to find a way to drive them away from that village, with the damage they've already caused — Potter!"

Harry's head snapped up and he found himself looking into Lance Colman's puzzled face.

"You're useless today," Lance commented dryly. "What's on your mind?"

Harry shrugged and dropped his eyes again to the report he was supposed to be reading. "Nothing…"

"…Except tonight's transformation?"

Harry's heart missed a beat. "What?" he said, a little too quickly.

"You'd think I wouldn't notice you disappear every full moon?" Lance asked coldly. When Harry opened his mouth to answer, he added, "Don't worry, I haven't started divulging your little secrets. Be a werewolf, be an illegal Animagus, I don't care."

Harry closed his mouth and gulped down with some difficulty. He didn't try to disabuse Lance; he was rather relieved that his team mate had concluded, from their adventure in Malfoy's tower, that Harry was only an Animagus and not something more dangerous. His sensation of relief quickly disappeared when Lance spoke up again, his voice drawling a little on the words.

"…But you'd better be careful."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked through clenched teeth. "I knew you would figure it out at some point or another, but it doesn't matter as long as you're the only one to know…"

"I am touched by your trust, Harry, I really am," Lance said, and the sarcasm was clearly audible in his voice. "However… Keep in mind that you're still considered as the dangerous weirdo of the Ministry… The last thing you need is—"

Harry abruptly raised one hand and held it up, as if he had stopped himself just in time before hitting his team mate fully in the face, and Lance choked on his last words.

"Don't even think of playing that game with me, Colman," Harry hissed. Blood was pounding at his temples and filling his ears with a thunderous sound that drowned every other noise; no matter how much he had been through, there was one thing that infallibly make him literally _shake_ with sudden fury, and it was betrayal of trust… Lance's insinuations were echoing in his ears and, although he was aware that he was slowly losing control of his emotions, he did not try to calm down. Who the _hell _did this little bastard think he was?

"Don't — you — _ever_ — threaten me again." Harry's raised hand curled into a fist as he spat out those words in a low voice. His left hand, under the table, was already feeling for his wand in his pocket.

Lance emitted a pitiful little squeak, and Harry distantly noticed that his team mate looked as if he was having trouble breathing. He was slowly reddening, his mouth gaping, and was desperately trying to inhale some air but couldn't seem to manage it; as if there was a hand clenched around his trachea.

"All right there, Colman?" another Auror called in a concerned voice from the other side of the room.

Lance's eyes bulged out with the effort to get some air into his lungs, and he was staring at Harry's raised fist with an expression of absolute terror on his face.

A porcelain cup exploded in an apprentice's hands, drenching her in hot coffee.

The crystal-clear chinking sound startled Harry, who in his anger had almost forgotten that he was sitting in the middle of a crowded room. The apprentice let out a cry of fright to which responded the derisive laughter and a round of applause from the other occupants of the room. In the brouhaha, Harry unclenched his hand and dropped it at his side; and at once Lance's head flew backwards, and he sucked in a sharp breath that hissed past the edge of his teeth. Harry closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking the time to bring his temper back under control as Lance coughed and massaged his throat.

"I'm out of here," Harry said at last in a low voice. Raising to his feet, he pushed the report away from him and grabbed the long coat thrown on the back of his chair. As he walked past Lance, who was rather pale and rigid-backed, he bent over and whispered in his team mate's ear:

"_You_ be careful, Colman. Don't provoke me."

Lance's jaw clenched and his hand curled in his lap at Harry's warning, but he had no other reaction. Straightening again, Harry spun on his heel to find himself face to face with Robards' secretary. She was standing there with a heavy pile of folders in her arms, round-eyed and open-mouthed.

"You're… err… leaving?" she asked timidly.

"Err… yeah, I need to leave a little earlier today, I've got an appointment at St. Mungo's," Harry lied. He wasn't normally supposed to leave the Ministry before a couple of hours at least, and the secretary was bound to know that. Hence the necessity to find a good excuse. "Goodbye."

He hastily walked round her, ignoring her "Hey! Wait!", wrenched the door opened and stepped out of the cubicle. His heart was still beating unnaturally fast. He really needed to get out of the building.

By the time he had reached the Atrium, he had chosen the place where he would wait for his transformation to begin, and he lost no time in Disapparating away.

He materialised again and found himself almost ankle-deep in a liquid mud. It was the first Friday of December and a stormy wind was blowing, carrying with it a harsh, forceful winter rain. The water fell unevenly, following the brutal gusts of wind, and Harry had to squint to distinguish the village of Hogsmeade behind the swinging curtains of rain. Gathering around him the long, shapeless Muggle coat that was flapping wildly in the wailing squalls, he set off towards the houses, his footsteps accompanied by the squelching noises of the mud pooling around his feet.

By the time he had reached the Main Street of the village, Harry was practically running. He hurried along the cobbled street until he found a shelter in the doorframe of the Three Broomsticks. The rain formed an almost solid wall of falling water, and the droplets slapping the cobblestones and the tiles of the roofs sounded like thousands of tiny hands indefatigably hitting drums. The resulting noise was such that Harry couldn't catch the laughter, singing and animated talking usually issuing from the Three Broomsticks. His transformation wouldn't be pleasant in such conditions… With a sigh, Harry turned his back on the storm and pushed the door of the pub open.

He stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him; and only then did he realise that the absence of noise had not been due to the thunderous rumble of the storm: the room was completely empty, and the lack of lit candles left it drowned in a greyish gloom. Harry took a few steps in the pub, wondering why Rosmerta would have closed down in the middle of the afternoon; but his musings were interrupted by a voice much too young to belong to the middle-aged barmaid.

"We're closed!" rang out the voice.

A girl in her late teens emerged from behind the bar, hastily wiping her hands on a piece of cloth that had probably been white an hour ago. An apron was protecting her black, slightly schoolish-looking robes, and her hair was hidden under a scarf. Harry, confused, stared at her questioningly: he had never heard that Rosmerta had waitresses. And was it just his imagination, or did he remember seeing that girl somewhere…?

"We're closed," repeated the girl, giving him this bright and fake smile most shopkeepers plaster on their face when talking to customers. "The Three Broomsticks opens again tomorrow at eight, and stays open until eleven in the evening."

"Yes, I know," Harry distractedly answered. "Forgive me but I don't remember ever seeing you here," he added, before he could stop himself. "It's been a while since I last came, of course, but… Is Rosmerta…?"

"Oh, she's fine, and she still owns the pub if that's your question," the girl answered immediately, a slightly weary smile on her face. She must have heard the question quite often. "But she decided to take some rest. So I help her during the week, and I run the bar on my own in the weekends. My only time off is Friday afternoon actually."

"I see," said Harry. "Do I know you?"

The girl's eyes widened slightly. She had large honey-coloured eyes lined with thick black lashes, a surprisingly delicate feature in a face that otherwise lacked maturity: the round cheeks and the small nose, covered in freckles, were still those of a little girl. Harry also noted the pointed chin and a black strand of hair that had escaped the scarf; the more he examined her, the more convinced he was that he had already met her.

"I… don't think so," she said hesitantly. "I, hum, I've always stayed in Hogsmeade after I took my NEWTs so…"

Harry instinctively lifted a hand and brushed the strand of hair off her face to have a better look at her. The girl's cheeks turned crimson and she recoiled from his touch, making him suddenly aware of how his gesture could be interpreted. He quickly dropped his hand.

"Sorry," he hastily said. "I just… Weren't we in Hogwarts together or something? I'm pretty sure I've seen you somewhere…"

"I — I — oh, this is too stupid. _Lumos!_"

A ray of light flooded out of the girl's wand, which she had snatched from where it was tucked in her apron pocket. Harry blinked as the beam of white, crude light hit him fully in the eyes; but just as he opened his mouth to ask the waitress to put the wand down, a piercing shriek made him jump.

"Oh my God! _Harry Potter?_" the girl asked in a shrill voice.

"Ah — yeah it's me — err, if you'd be so kind to lower that thing, please —", Harry muttered as he raised his hand to shield his eyes; he was now resigned to being stared at, yet again, as if he was a two-headed chimera, but he had rather not be blinded in the process.

"Oh — oh dear, I'm _sorry—" _The girl was practically stammering as she extinguished her wand and stuffed it back in the pocket of her apron. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No I — what?"

This really was the last thing Harry expected her to say.

"A drink," the girl repeated. "I've been terribly rude to you and—"

"But you're closed," Harry pointed out, now fairly confused at the turn of events.

"Oh, but I won't ask you to pay!" the girl protested. "I'm offering you that drink. Please? I'd be honoured. Really."

Harry stared blankly at the young face, shining with hope… no morbid excitement, wariness or barely controlled fear; just _hope._ He swallowed hard — he was finding difficult to say no, all of sudden.

That's how he found himself sitting at a small table, a glass of Madam Rosmerta's best Firewhisky in front of him, while the young waitress sat opposite him and warmed her hands to her large cup of tea. A single candle burning on the table enclosed them in a pool of golden light, creating a strangely intimate atmosphere.

"So," she began cheerfully, as if they were seeing each other every day, "it's been a while, hasn't it? I don't think I've seen you ever since your accident in the woods, last year."

Something clicked in the back of Harry's mind.

"Wait. You're… Romilda, is that it?" he asked uncertainly. "The girl with the Chocolate Cauldrons…"

"Full of love potion, yes," the girl mumbled, her smile a little strained all of sudden. "I guess that's what you'll always remember of me, isn't it?"

"Well, it was quite memorable," Harry replied, grinning at the memory. "So you're living here?"

Romilda nodded from behind her cup of tea.

"I've been living at a friend's house for the past year," she explained. "But he died recently… He was an old man, you know… So I found a job here."

"Isn't it a bit dull to never leave Hogsmeade?" Harry enquired. "You don't want to, I don't know… Travel a bit? Or meet new people? S'not as if the village was crowded with people your age after all…"

"Yes, I get a bit lonely sometimes," she agreed. "But I'm too damn sentimental… Waking up and seeing Hogwarts in the distance when I look out the window… I don't think I could go without it." She smiled and tilted her head sideways. "I need my castle in the background."

Harry smiled back, amused at the girl's candour.

"And you don't think I'm a complete freak?" he asked, a little brusque.

Her smile faded and, for a second, a shadow altered her juvenile features. It went as quickly as it had come, though not before Harry had the time to notice it; and it was with a joyous smile that Romilda raised her cup at him.

"Nope," she replied gaily. "Once a fan, always a fan. I haven't changed much since the Chocolate Cauldrons, Harry. And to my knowledge, you haven't changed much from the man who defeated You-Know-Who."

"Who knows?" said Harry quietly.

Silence fell between them. Romilda was shooting furtive glances at him, as if she didn't want to be caught looking; her features expressed an admiration such that Harry had only ever seen it in Remus' eyes during their transformations. It was slightly unnerving — Harry had forgotten how it felt to be looked up to… The dull grey light filtering through the thick glass of the windowpanes had gradually decreased, allowing obscurity to creep in the room. Night was falling. Soon he would have to leave.

Romilda started talking. She had a rather pleasant voice, clear and fresh, that sounded a bit out of place in the grey, sticky silence of the dying November day. Harry wasn't really listening; the whisky was good and the girl's voice was an agreeable background sound, and he soon found himself slipping in a state of pleasant drowsiness. He vaguely registered that she was talking about the odd people she met as a waitress, how life was in Hogsmeade village, and what memories she had of her old friend, Bernard Olibrius, who had apparently died a few months ago.

"…It was a werewolf attack. Bernard had strayed outside on a night of full moon and they got him. Werewolves often come to ravage the valley," she explained matter-of-factly. "They have ever since the end of the war. I don't know what drives them here."

Harry instantly snapped out of his trance, his body tensing automatically at Romilda's words.

"Werewolves?" he repeated abruptly. "Hang on. You're saying there's a _werewolf pack _wandering every so often in Hogsmeade?"

"Well, yes—"

"How often do they come here?" Harry interrupted. His brain seemed to have sprung from a completely relaxed state into a frenzied activity. Werewolves regularly haunting a village of wizards? In the twenty-first century? That was impossible; he had misunderstood her…

"Lately, every month," Romilda answered, looking at him curiously. "They're crazy. They roam about, howling at the moon, and biting people isn't enough… Now they're killing them."

"They're… what?"

Harry straightened up in his chair and leant his forearms on the table, his hands flat against the wooden surface, and applied himself to take slow and deep breaths in an attempt to control his nerves; he felt as if he was about to start stammering any minute. How Romilda could stay so calm and composed when talking about such a _stupefying _thing was beyond him.

"And you've not warned the Ministry?" he asked disbelievingly. "You've not told them that a _werewolf pack_ is invading the village every single month and _killing_ inhabitants?"

"We _have_ told them!" Romilda said, her eyes widening in indignation. "They said that they were sending someone to investigate, but no one ever came! Then our Mayor received an owl telling him that it couldn't be helped at the moment, that the werewolves would go away in time and that they, Aurors, weren't entitled to drive them away. We were also advised not to spread the word, in order not to provoke murders of werewolves all over the country. We've been living with ever since."

Harry let out an exclamation of furious incredulity. "_Not entitled to drive them away?_" he blurted out, his temper flaring up again. "What the _hell?_ Merlin knows I'm not a werewolf-hunter—" _And for good reasons too,_ he almost added. "—but leaving a whole village without any protection against them? That's — that's—"

"We live with it," Romilda hastily repeated; she had started at his outburst, and she sounded a little alarmed by his reaction. "Please don't get me in trouble for telling you. I'm not supposed to, really I'm not. I should never have told you."

Harry abruptly rose to his feet, ignoring the plaintive screech of the legs of his chair against the tiled floor as it was pushed backwards, and started pacing nervously in the deserted pub.

"No, you did the right thing," he said shortly. "I would have found out anyway… How could I have spend all these nights in Hogwarts and McGonagall _never_ said…"

"I guess she has orders, too," Romilda suggested. "The students themselves don't know. The Hogsmeade weekends were cancelled without any reason given."

"Holy…" Harry whispered. He ran a hand in his hair, gripping it tightly at the back of his head. "That's completely mental."

Romilda stood up, as well, and drew closer to him. The flickering flame of the candle threw in sharp relief the angles of her face, rubbing out the youthful roundness and emphasising the grave expression on her features; and she looked much older, all of sudden.

"Can you do something about it?" she asked in a barely audible murmur; one would have thought she hardly dared speak her mind.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, his eyes attached to the tiled floor. "I can talk to my superior about it," he said in a low voice, speaking more to himself than to her. "See why he wouldn't budge his ass for Hogsmeade… And if he still refuses to do anything…"

He stopped talking mid-sentence when he caught sight of Romilda's face, which was alight with hope. It was… as if she had in front of her the hero that would rid her of all the tragedies in her life. Harry was almost frightened. _That girl must be still stuck in a time when I'm the world's saviour._

"I'll see what I can do," he finished lamely, clearing his throat to hide his malaise.

"Then I'm no longer worried," she said cheerfully. "Thank you."

And it was so heartfelt that a lump came up in Harry's throat. Romilda's candid trust was touching.

"It's full moon tonight," he pointed out at last, eager for a change of subject. "You're spending the night here?"

She shook her head. "Bernard gave me his house," she explained. "It's safer… Werewolves are sometimes drawn by the smell of alcohol. Several times they broke into the Three Broomsticks' back yard. We used to keep the barrels here, and the smell persists…"

"I'm walking you to your house then," Harry briskly concluded. "The moon will raise any minute now. I'd rather see you safely indoors."

She obediently nodded and started untying the ribbons of her apron. Taking it off, she folded it over one of her forearms and carried it to a large wardrobe that stood tall and grim-looking in a corner of the vast room.

"I'm usually home much sooner, but I wasn't expecting a visit," she explained, speaking over her shoulder as she hung the apron in the wardrobe. "I'm not imprudent."

She tore off the scarf tied over her head, freeing a cascade of thick black hair that fell haphazardly over her shoulders, and negligently threw it inside the wardrobe. Harry picked up his coat on the back of a chair and shrugged it on, while Romilda wrapped herself in a cloak.

"Let's go now."

They walked silently side by side in the deserted street. Harry now noticed that the houses were protected by grillages that most certainly hadn't been present in his school days, and that all the shutters were tightly closed. A silence heavy with fear and expectation lay over the village, broken only by the sharp clatter of Romilda's heels on the wet cobblestones. The wind had fallen and a slight drizzle persisted, slowly but efficiently drenching Harry's hair and scattering the lenses of his glasses with sparkly droplets. He briefly took them off and renewed the Water-Repelling spell.

Romilda's house was one of the last ones on the northern edge of the village. Harry remembered that he had once followed Professor McGonagall one summer night, when he still wandered around under his Invisibility Cloak; they had both been following an old man and a young girl to this very house. Now that he thought of it, it was doubtless that they had been Romilda and her old friend.

On the doorstep, she turned to him to say goodbye.

"Come back to pay me a visit from time to time," she said.

Harry nodded. "Take care of yourself," he replied automatically, his thoughts already elsewhere.

"You too."

The door closed behind her and Harry heard the key turning twice in the lock. Wheeling around, he quickly walked down the three steps leading to the front door and set off again towards the distant gates of Hogwarts castle. His first intention had been to get inside the grounds via the passageway of the Shrieking Shack, but the derelict house that had shielded his first transformation was even further from Romilda's house than the entry of Hogwarts. And he could not afford to lose anymore time.

Harry glanced at his watch and hastened his pace, his legs becoming stiff with the effort to walk as fast as possible. He had no idea of the time when the full moon would rise, and the heavy grey clouds were forming a thick blanket overhead, completely hiding the sky from view. He could be seconds away from transformation for all he knew, and the gates were still at a good distance… The impossibility to run on the wet and slippery paving stones was making him edgy. He knew he already was in the Anti-Apparition area.

The cobbled street gave way to a muddy road, and Harry could no longer resist the temptation: he broke into a run, ignoring the wet sounds that the soaked earth emitted every time his feet would collide with it, and only vaguely aware that he sent mud flying everywhere at each stride. The gates were near. His running already was becoming more coordinated, more powerful too, as he felt a new strength flow inside his veins — as it did before every transformation. He caught himself grinning, the feeling of urgency slowly dissolving into the pleasure of the race…

By the time he reached the gates, his whole body was shivering with the waves of raw, ancient power running over him, again and again, stronger and more frequent by the second. He had to throw all his willpower into refraining from transforming right now and there; he needed to keep his human shape long enough for him to perform the spell that would unlock the gates and let him through.

His hand was practically shaking when he drew his wand from his belt, resulting in him failing twice to unlock the gigantic padlock. On the third attempt it clicked open, and the heavy chain slowly uncoiled itself from the huge bars it was wrapped around. Harry forcefully pushed the gates open and dashed inside the grounds of Hogwarts. As soon as he had released the heavy iron gates, they lazily pivoted on their massive hinges again and shut themselves with a sharp clatter, causing the chains to writhe back around the bars like huge metallic snakes.

Harry halted then, and stopped struggling.

Less than ten seconds later, he had smoothly changed into his wolf form. He experimentally shook his head, trying to get rid of the slight dizziness that was probably a consequence of his resisting the spell for so long. He stood in the middle of the wide, gravel-covered road that drew a broad curve around the lake, which lay black and smooth as a mirror under the cloudy sky. The road would then wind its way up the stocky mound that stood in the centre of the valley, and die at the threshold of the castle, leaving the greenhouses on its right side. The Forest grew on the western edge of the lake, right across from where he was standing.

Harry set off towards the lake, breathing softly in the rich smell of damp earth and rotting wood that rose from the ground; the quickest way to the old core of the Forest was around the southern border of the lake. There grew a wild mess of brambles and old heather, little inviting to students who liked wandering in the grounds at night. The only time Harry had ventured in this part of the grounds was when he had been wrestling with Tom Riddle, three years ago.

Just as Harry tentatively pawed a thick thorny branch that blocked his way, a werewolf howled.

The white hair on his back bristled up and he looked wildly around for the source of the long, high-pitched, fierce cry. It was close — somewhere on his left, just beyond the huge iron railings that ran along the southern border of the grounds. Other werewolves joined their voices to the first one, and the lights of the distant castle seemed to flicker in fear as the moist air filled up with the scream of beasts in hunting. Harry himself couldn't repress a shudder.

He tore his eyes off the railings, hardly distinguishable in the rainy night, and took a few careful steps into the thick bushes of brambles. His eyes were fixed on the distant Forest. He had to go back in. He had to. He _needed_ to.

The howling, that had slowly decreased into barely audible growls, started up yet again — more violent and desperate than the first time. Harry shook his head, a growl rolling deep inside his throat. They had smelled human blood; it was obvious. And judging from the intensity of the screaming, they were many… Probably even more than the pack he had met, the night he had been bitten. He thought of the village, of the inhabitants quivering in terror behind their closed shutters and pitiful defensive wards. Not much could stop a hunting pack, and the wards that could required a specialist to install them; and he doubted anyone living in Hogsmeade could afford such a thing. He thought of Romilda Vane; her house was the first on the way of the pack, and he had not seen any grillage around it.

_Don't start thinking of that. Not now. There's nothing you can do about it anyway._

Harry crouched and crawled under an arcade of dark-leaved branches knotted together in an inextricable net. A few thorns bit at his fur and broke with a sharp noise, entangled in the thick hair. He decided to edge closer to the lake, where the brambles were likely to be less abundant.

The plaintive howl broke into a series of fierce, greedy yaps, almost like a peal of raucous laughter. Harry started growling again, his frustration at being helpless in front of Hogsmeade's agony mingling with his anger at the Ministry's indifference. People were getting _killed,_ for Merlin's sake. Their throats were being ripped open, their stomach ravaged, their entrails dragged out of them and eaten on the spot, their members torn off their bodies… Harry had seen before what was left of a human being when they encountered a werewolf pack, and he had sincerely hope he would _never_ have to see that again. And in the meantime, here he was, fighting his way through brambles and heather in order to get inside a Forest and listen to _trees._

A shrill, ear-splitting sound, reminiscent of a foghorn, rang in the symphony of yaps and howls like a wrong note. Harry stopped advancing completely, his heart racing. That was an alarm ward going off. The werewolves had broken inside a house.

Before he knew it, Harry had wheeled about and was running through the path he had created in the midst of the wild vegetation. Every bark coming from the werewolf pack was fuelling his rage, and soon another emotion grew in him, urging him to run faster still: the thirst of blood. The desire to kill. To _punish_ these creatures who dared soil his territory with their hunting, and who were too cowardly to go on their own. Tufts of white hair flew as the thorns ripped them off his back, branches whipped his face and limbs, but he hardly paid any attention as he sped up his run.

The gravels of the road crunched and flew everywhere under his paws. The gates were closed and would not open before him until he would be human again; that left him only one way out. Without the slightest hesitation, Harry turned left and followed the road circling the eastern edge of the lake.

He was running, harder than he had run in his whole life. His endurance seemed endless, the steely muscles rolling in perfect harmony under the damaged fur, the sound of his own breathing and his quick, but astonishingly regular heartbeat filling his ears. The castle was steadily approaching. In a matter of minutes he had covered the distance separating him from the mound on which Hogwarts was perched. He didn't climb, running round it instead and staying close to the lake. There, at a little distance, isolated from the Forest, stood the Whomping Willow.

Harry was at the foot of the tree before the branches could start moving. He didn't even need to press the knot of wood that would freeze the Willow — already he had dived into the passageway. His progression was much quicker on the dry earth of the underground tunnel, without obstacles to stand on his way. Reaching the top of the staircase that ended the tunnel, Harry rose on his hind legs and managed to lift the trapdoor using his head. With a growl of effort, he dragged his whole body into the Shack, the trapdoor weighing heavy on his back. It slammed shut as soon as he was able to stand on the boarded floor of the Shack.

There, Harry halted again to catch his breath. His body was shivering with the effort he had just given, as well as with his unaltered rage and thirst for blood. The howling of the werewolves was terribly close now.

Harry soundlessly crept to the window and, standing on his hind legs again, he pushed it open with his front paws. He sneaked outside, as silent and swift as a snake, and quietly crossed the neglected garden to the old fence. Soon he was out.

The bawling and yapping expressed a fierce, ruthless joy. Fury boiled again in Harry's veins but he forced himself to trot at a steady rate. He would need all his strength for what was to come.

He was now among the houses. No light was on, and he could almost feel the fear oozing from every crack of the closed shutters. The werewolves were near… In one, two minutes he would see them. He quickened his pace a little, his tension growing, his soft paws making absolutely no sound on the wet cobblestones.

All of sudden, a shadow sprang from behind a house and started galloping wildly, emitting small yelps of excitement. Harry froze, watching the skinny, shabby figure, his thirst for blood suddenly overwhelming. He was almost panting with anticipation himself.

The werewolf caught sight of him, a white, immobile silhouette in the shadow of a house, and stopped in full run. Harry didn't give it the time to turn around: in three leaps he was on it. Both beasts rolled on the cobbled streets, but Harry was far bigger and stronger than the other. The werewolf struggled desperately, and without any success, against Harry's crushing weight. It smelled like dirt, mud, sweat and blood, and for a few seconds this mixture filled Harry's nostrils, before he slammed his opponent to the ground and sunk his teeth into its throat. Then the odour of blood covered all others.

The scream of terror died in a sickening gurgle and the werewolf's body shook with violent, jerky spasms. Harry jumped off it, watching the blood spurting from the wound and coating the dark and shiny cobblestones. Then he turned his back on the mutilated corpse. This was small meat. He wanted more.

Without pausing to think, Harry engulfed himself in the dark alleyway the werewolf had emerged from. He had only just started to pick up speed again when two other werewolves walked round a corner and found themselves face to face with him. Harry couldn't help it: the growl rolling in his throat rose to a hateful howl, to which answered the werewolves' cry of fright. They turned tail, fleeing before he had the time to reach them, and dived back in the shadows they had come from.

Harry followed them, now at full speed, until he emerged into a backyard — and then he froze again, the spectacle meeting his eyes too horribly hypnotising for him to do anything but stand here, transfixed, and stare.

The backyard was full of werewolves — grey ones, brown ones, huge ones and skinny ones; werewolves yapping, snapping jaws at each other, running here and there, savagely destroying everything they could reach, and stopping now and again to raise their snout to the skies and let a plaintive howl escape their throats. The back door of the nearby house had been violently broken down, and only fragments of it still hung from the hinges. A couple of werewolves were still biting and clawing at a shapeless mass of bloody flesh lying on the ground; there was blood everywhere: it maculated the fur on the werewolves' snouts and front legs, it was splattered on the walls of the house and on the paving stones, and it pooled under the body, soaking the reminders of the person's clothes. A nearby streetlamp threw an orange glow upon this hellish scene.

The two werewolves who had met Harry in the alleyway seemed to have regained a considerable amount of courage, now that they were surrounded by the rest of the pack. Holding their heads high, they growled threateningly in Harry's direction, occasionally licking their chops with a wide and blood-red tongue. One after the other, the werewolves abandoned whatever they were wrecking, and turned their yellow eyes to the white wolf standing immobile at the edge of the pool of orange light. Only one werewolf remained bent over the bloody heap that had been a human being, licking the blood with evident delight.

Harry couldn't look away from the mutilated corpse. If he had been human, the sight of these sad, torn up remains of a man would have made him sick; but even under his wolf form disgust was leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Upon noticing the circle of werewolves closing around him, he started growling, too — his throat vibrating with a low-pitched note, his chops curling over white fangs still bloodied from his first kill, and his moves slow, purposeful, revealing the powerful muscles rolling under the skin. The werewolves closer to him flinched when he met their eyes and the circle gradually widened around him.

Harry wasn't attacking yet. He was looking for the leader of the pack, and was puzzled when he couldn't seem to find it in the werewolves threatening him. Then his gaze travelled back to the half-devoured corpse and the huge beast bent over it.

_There it is…_

Harry, ignoring the other werewolves, stopped growling completely and headed straight for the eating werewolf. The circle reluctantly opened to let him through, his size and strength commanding respect even though he was no longer threatening them, and so Harry got his first real glance at the victim.

However, he only saw one thing: the mop of long thick black hair, now drenched in blood, that was still attached to the maimed, unrecognisable face. He stopped dead in his tracks as an image suddenly flashed in his mind — a young black-haired waitress drinking from a large cup, her wide innocent eyes, her childlike features, her annoying but somehow touching candour — and something snapped.

Harry distantly heard an ear-splitting scream — a scream so hateful, so incensed that it did not sound as if it could possibly come from a creature of this world — and he did not realise that it was flooding out of his own throat. He did not think much anymore: he had leapt forward, wanting nothing more than to tear the flesh off the bones of the monster that, still now, was plunging with grunts of delight its snout in its victim's entrails.

The werewolf turned about at the last moment, and for a split-second Harry glimpsed at a wide and scarred face, in which a single yellow eye glinted with the savage drunkenness of the werewolf in hunting. Then the leader jumped aside.

Harry landed catlike on the blood-drenched paving stones and wheeled around instantly, but not quickly enough for his opponent: the beast, while slightly smaller than he was, had obviously much more experience in werewolves fights and it had not lost a second before launching itself at Harry. The monster's shoulder collided violently with Harry's and the frightful jaws clapped loudly, missing his throat by an inch; a reflexive jerk of the head had undoubtedly saved his life. Harry disengaged, stumbling a little as he stepped backwards, and tried to recover his balance altered by the forceful impact. But the werewolf was not going to give him the time needed and it rushed to him again — and all Harry had the time to see before the second shock was a solitary yellow eye and a set of sharp, bloodied bare fangs.

Harry didn't jump out of the way this time: the monster violently crashed into him and they both rolled on the paved ground. Then it was all hair, blood, dirt, for long minutes, a confused mess of snapping jaws, angry growls and paws sweeping the air and tearing up the most tender skin; both tirelessly struggling for the upper hand — it was all about never letting the enemy pin him down to the ground, leaving the soft skin of his belly and throat exposed to the beast's sharp fangs. The sound of their heavy breathings and the ferocious barks echoing all around them filled his ears.

Harry's rage was still burning him; he didn't care how much he got hurt in the process, as long as he inflicted as much damage as possible to the leader of this pack of murderers. His attacks were swift and brutal, and several times his fangs grazed the fur of the beast — which would invariably dodge the blow at the last second. Harry was infuriated, and he also grew a little desperate as he began to realise he wasn't getting the upper hand at all. He wasn't winning. He wasted his strength on angry blows and unsuccessful attacks, while his enemy seemed to be holding back…

Harry stumbled again, imprudently exposing his right side, and once more the leader took advantage of his momentary weakness. Harry found himself knocked over as his opponent ran headfirst into his side, and he rolled over on his back, paws beating the air wildly.

It lasted a second maybe, before Harry managed to get up again — but the leader had already clenched its vice-like jaws in the thick fur at the base of his neck, at the junction with the shoulder. Fresh blood poured down the wound, soaking Harry's chest, but the injury was only superficial; however, the leader's hold on Harry was incredibly solid, and if he gave it the opportunity he was sure the jaws would be tightening until flesh and bones gave way, abandoning access to his throat.

Harry's whole body jerked and he jumped in the air, dragging the werewolf hanging from his shoulder off the ground but failing at making him let go. Panic was causing Harry's flanks to quiver; he bent his long neck at a terrifying angle, barely managing to tear into pieces his opponent's ear before giving it a deep gash in the flesh of its cheek. The werewolf grunted in pain but held even more tightly to Harry's flesh, ignoring the blood flooding into its blind, blackened eye…

Harry now found it difficult to breathe: the skin covering his chest and throat was being stretched and drawn into the werewolf's mouth. As Harry stopped moving for a second, trying desperately to suck in more air, he felt with an icy sensation of horror his opponent draw even more fur into its mouth, with a movement of its steely jaws close to mastication. Panting, Harry swirled about, dragging the werewolf in his wake and making it lose its balance for a brief instant. The werewolf gave a muffled groan of surprise, apparently not expecting Harry to still be able to struggle; the beast's breathing was slow and steady, its single eye dull, as if it had already lost interest in the fight — eventually Harry would collapse to the ground and it would let go of its prey, just to dive back a moment later and sever the artery that pulsated under the soft white fur. And it would be over.

_Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving…_

They both moved together in a strange ballet, each trying to knock over the other, but Harry's increasingly difficult breathing didn't seem to leave any doubt about the victor's identity. Harry's sight was dimming already, and he couldn't help emitting small plaintive moans every time he exhaled. The werewolves walking in circle around the pair of them were panting with greed, their chops curled up in a horrible caricature of a smirk. They seemed to be many more than when he had first entered the backyard…

Harry blinked. There _were_ more of them. Behind the two ranks of shabby, dirty, blood-covered beasts, stood a few bigger werewolves whose fur was perfectly immaculate… His eyes widened in stupefaction. They were not werewolves. They were _wolves._ All about as big as he was, although their fur shimmered in various shades of grey in the feeble light of the streetlamp. They kept their eyes fixed upon the pair of fighters. Silent. Expecting. The beauty of them was startling, otherworldly, like an apparition in the middle of hell…

Harry blinked again and looked away. His limbs were now trembling with exhaustion. He was seconds away from collapsing, and as his opponent realised it, it pushed him into the wall of the house until he was completely cornered. Now all it had to do was wait until Harry was strangled to death, or until he let himself fall to the ground at last… Harry felt it, and despair constricted his tortured chest. With a grunt of effort, he turned his head the other way, the underside of his jaw momentarily pressing against the bowed cranium of the monster suffocating him; he thought his neck would snap in the process — and he did hear a quite nasty cracking sound at the base of it — but in the end he managed to lift a little the increasing pressure on his windpipe. And his snout was now pressed against the werewolf's head, just at the junction of the neck and jaw, below the bloodied ear.

The werewolf leader's fangs had slightly slipped when Harry had turned his head; interpreting his gesture as a last start of survival instinct rather than an attempt to continue the fight, it completely released the fur for a split second in order to go for the throat at last — but as soon as Harry felt the lethal grip loosening he threw his head forward, his jaws parting.

A horrible yell filled the backyard as the werewolf leader stumbled backwards, the thick tendon on the side of its neck severed by Harry's teeth. The wound, too small and too far from the vital veins, wasn't lethal in itself; but blood was flowing freely out of it, drenching the torso covered in sparse and dirt-matted fur. Harry didn't think or plan his next move: in one leap he was on the werewolf again. The thin skin of the throat yielded under his fangs and blood flooded in Harry's mouth yet again, filling his nostrils with its heavy, intoxicating odour. And out of the severed throat poured out the werewolf's life.

Harry released the body of the one-eyed werewolf and stepped backwards, panting. Then, the howling started again.

He lifted his head, and there they were, the grey wolves that had gathered to watch the fight — sitting on their rear, their necks extended to the sky, the open jaws letting out a high-pitched, incredibly pure note. The shabby werewolves that had been under the one-eyed beast's command had all fled, and for some reason Harry was not surprised. Imagining their grotesquely disproportionate bodies covered in dirty fur next to those beautiful creatures was laughable.

One of the wolves lowered its head and met Harry's gaze. It had deep-blue eyes, which shone with such intelligence and knowledge that Harry felt as if he had in front of him a creature that had seen the beginnings of the world. He staggered forward, very aware that he was covered in cuts, blood, dirt and saliva, but the wolves didn't give him the time to reach them. Without warning, they wheeled about and soundlessly vanished into the dark alleyway, leaving him to stand alone in the devastated backyard.

Harry turned his head and carefully licked his wound. The cloudy sky was now paling, and he shuddered as he felt his strengths slowly abandoning him. He limped to a paving stone that wasn't soiled with blood and lay down, breathing in and out noisily, his head resting on his extended front paws. As he watched the dull light of a gloomy day creep in the ravaged backyard, his eyes fell onto the broken corpse of the huge werewolf leader.

The corpse was transforming. The broad paws were turning into large square human hands, the fur gathering to form black robes stretched over the powerful body, the snout retracting into a human face. Harry stared, transfixed, as the monster slowly turned into an exceptionally large man. Then when he looked down again he saw, without surprise, his own bony hands where his white paws had been. He was human again.

Harry sat up, drawing his wand from his belt with his left hand, and performed a spell that healed the wound of his shoulder in a mere few seconds. Staggering to his feet, he walked towards the body of his defeated enemy and turned it over with his foot.

"Fenrir Greyback," he murmured, his voice hoarse. A strange smirk came to stretch his lips.

Greyback's brutal face was frozen in an expression of incomprehension, his yellow eye and the gaping, blackened hole that had been his right eye more frightening than the multiple scars that disfigured him. Harry held out a hand and lightly traced with a pale finger the underside of the empty eye socket.

"It was my wand, wasn't it?" he whispered in the silence. "My wand that drove right through your eye, the night I was bitten... Wasn't it, Greyback?"

Harry's eyes detached themselves from Greyback's maimed figure and travelled up to the mass of bloody flesh, with its mop of long dark hair, thrown on the stone steps leading to the broken door.

"She was a nice girl, Greyback," Harry said thoughtfully. "She was a really nice girl. You shouldn't have angered me twice… You should have realised it always got you into trouble…"

Harry turned his back on the two bodies and stared at the alleyway, now drowned in the semi darkness of the dawn, where the mysterious wolves had disappeared.

"If you will excuse me now," he said at the empty courtyard, "I must go and have breakfast with Professor McGonagall."

And Harry left.

* * *

A/N: So here you go, a massive update that annoyed the shit out of me for two weeks at least. I hope it's good enough; I wouldn't know, I personally ended up hating it with a passion. 

**Special thanks to:** the DLP crowd, namely Sree, Lord Bill, nuhuh and Dark Syaoran (and probably a couple of others that I'm forgetting at the moment); given the amount of help I received from them, I can safely say they pratically co-wrote a few paragraphs of this chapter. From RC, I shall name Rob and Yarrgh, who occasionally helped me with my sentence structure as well.

* * *


	12. All Those Who Knew

**

Chapter Eleven: All Those Who Knew

**

"Did you hear the howling last night, Professor?"

Professor McGonagall started as a familiar voice, young and clear, unceremoniously broke the silence that lay over the empty Great Hall, on the early hours of the particularly grim Saturday morning. She turned to face the young man who had so thoughtlessly disrupted her train of thoughts, trying her best not to glare at him; she had decided she ought to be more patient with her new Transfiguration teacher.

"Good morning to you too, John," she said rather stiffly.

"Morning, Professor, morning," the young teacher answered in a cheery tone.

He drew back the chair next to hers and sat down, apparently oblivious of the fact that he was now occupying Professor Severus Snape's chair. Minerva McGonagall pursed her lips; she knew perfectly well that, should Severus choose that moment to enter the Great Hall for some breakfast, she would have to solve yet another diplomatic crisis between the two teachers. A fresh member of the staff should never rob the seat of an older one. Those were Hogwarts' unspoken rules.

"So, you heard the howling, didn't you?" John repeated, casually slumped in his chair, as he plunged a fork in his bacon and eggs.

"I doubt anyone could avoid hearing it," she said shortly.

"You're right," acquiesced the young man with a thoughtful nod. "They sounded even crazier than usual last night. I wonder why I've never heard any student mention the noise, that's three full moons in a row that those bloody beasts keep me awa—"

"The students don't hear them," Professor McGonagall interrupted coolly. "Their dormitories are protected with Calfeutre Curses; the walls and windows are soundproof. They are not supposed to know."

She lifted her cup of steaming tea to her lips and sipped a little of the fragrant liquid.

"That actually sounds like a good idea," said Jon, lost in the contemplation of his scrambled eggs. "I should do that, too. I would sleep, at least… Or I would finally be able to correct my essays in due time, without being interrupted! I wonder if I should ask that old Flitwick—"

"Please do, John."

Professor McGonagall's crisp voice cut short the young man's monologue, and in the blessed silence that followed, she gladly dove back into a deep musing.

Minerva McGonagall had certainly heard the howling. All night she had stayed awake, almost shaking with rage at her own powerlessness in front of the tragedy Hogsmeade had to go through, month after month. Her last shouting match against Scrimgeour on the subject had ended on a bitter note, with him threatening to demote her of the position of Headmistress if she refused to keep her mouth shut. The wariness and mild distaste she had developed towards the Ministry in Dumbledore's days had quickly turned into a visceral hatred. What were they thinking, leaving a whole village at the mercy of a pack of werewolves? What kind of sick, twisted experiment were they having? For that was the feeling she got every time she tried to bring up the subject at the Ministry: they were not indifferent, far from it. They were expectant, as if busy studying the phenomenon rather than trying to put an end to it.

Granted, it was something she had never heard of before, a pack of werewolves coming back again and again at the same place, no longer caring about infecting human beings but driven on by a terrifying bloodlust. All right, that was odd. Interesting, even, on some morbid level. However, people were _dying_. It was not a time for pulling out clipboards and taking notes on what was happening, it was time for some _action_, for goodness's sake!

Action. Miraculously, an opportunity had arisen for her to take some action without compromising her or her students' safety, or anyone's for that matter; and she had seized it. Earlier that week, she had received an owl from Harry Potter, asking for her permission to spend the full moon in the Hogwarts grounds. His request had nothing surprising about it, she knew how much he loved Hogwarts and she thought natural that he would like to wander in the grounds during his transformation. However, her instructions were strict: she should not let anyone know about the pack of werewolves. But halfway through her polite letter of refusal, her quill had slowed down and come to a stop. 

She would not tell him anything. He would hear by himself, while he safely remained within the shield of Hogwarts grounds. And knowing him, he would not let things be. He would find a way to put a stop to it. It was her hope, her only hope to save the stubborn inhabitants of Hogsmeade still clinging to their beloved village.

And so she had written back, giving him the spell that would grant him access to the grounds.

Now she was waiting for him to join her for breakfast.

"Pretty silent, huh?" the Transfiguration teacher cleverly pointed out, disturbing her yet again. "Everyone's having a nice lie-in?"

"It's Saturday morning," she replied testily. Her expectation was bordering anxiety; and she couldn't help glancing every few seconds towards the doors of the Great Hall, each time expecting to see Harry Potter's tall and lean figure walking through them.

"Well, yeah. I was thinking about that. What would you think of adding classes for the students on Saturday mornings? I'm a little behind in the Transfiguration curriculum, especially with my fifth-years, and I thought—"

"Then stop having them think and practice only during lessons, and give them more homework," Professor McGonagall said through clenched teeth. He was not up to date with the OWL curriculum. Well that certainly did nothing to improve her opinion of him.

"You can't be serious, Professor!" the young teacher protested. "I already have four essays to hand back and I can't see how I'm going to manage it! You don't expect me to correct papers on Sundays, I hope!"

Professor McGonagall's dry, long-fingered hands tightened their hold around the porcelain cup, and for a couple of seconds she toyed with the idea of throwing its boiling-hot contents at the boy's face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to bring her temper back under control.

"I see you have finished your breakfast," she said loudly, feeling that a change of subject was in order. "Maybe you should consider giving his chair back to Professor Snape."

John's boyish features took an expression of immense surprise, then he threw his head back and laughed heartily, the clear sound shattering in oddly sinister echoes on the stone walls of the empty Hall.

"Come on, Minerva!" he chuckled, missing the Headmistress's grimace at being called by her first name — something Snape himself would not do. "The old bat isn't even here yet, and if he does come in, he can take any other chair!"

"You know that's not how it works, John," she snapped. "And I'd advise you against angering Professor Snape."

John snorted with such disdain that Professor McGonagall finally had to put down her cup of tea, for fear her hands would betray her and fling it to the teacher's face of their own volition.

"I'm not scared of him," John said scornfully. "I'm a teacher here, as much as he is. I'm not scared of anybody. Except you, maybe, Minerva," he added with a smile and a wink.

The look Professor McGonagall gave him would have made Voldemort himself recoil with fright, but John, who was now busy examining his nails, missed that too.

"That old bat…" he started nonchalantly, but his sentence was cut short by the sound of the Great Hall doors being pushed open.

McGonagall's head snapped up — she had been eyeing the wand lying on her lap with a sort of guilty longing a few seconds before — and she experienced a wave of intense relief at seeing Harry Potter walking across the Great Hall towards the staff table. His clothes were in an appalling state, but thank goodness, he looked unharmed.

"Who is _that?_" John asked in a bewildered whisper, on her left.

She didn't bother to answer, rising from the vast throne-like chair instead to greet her former student.

Harry's black robes were in tatters and covered in a mixture of mud and blood. His face and hands were badly scratched, and the ripped material of his robes revealed the fresh, bright red scar of a magically healed wound at the base of his neck. McGonagall expected to see him pale and seething with a barely controlled fury, and she was startled, almost frightened, to note that his features were set in a sort of cold, deadly calmness.

"Harry," she said in a concerned voice. "How are you?"

Harry's voice sounded as hard and clear as crystal when he answered.

"I am fine, thank you, Professor. You had invited me over for breakfast?"

She nodded absent-mindedly, taken aback by his lack of reaction. He couldn't not have heard the howling… And why had he been wounded? Was it possible that he had found himself locked out of the grounds under his wolf form, and that he had tried to fight a whole pack of mad werewolves? A cold shiver ran up her spine at the thought. She was responsible for all that had happened to him last night…

Professor McGonagall led him to the staff table, where a plate had been prepared for him on the right side of the Headmistress's chair. The Transfiguration teacher's suspicious gaze was following their every move, hands shoved defiantly in the pockets of his impeccable robes and his chair tilted back on two legs.

"And who would that be?" John asked, failing to conceal the contempt in his voice as he looked over Harry's outfit, his lip curled. McGonagall bit back a frustrated exclamation and Harry raised his eyebrows.

"I'm Harry Potter," he said coldly. "Who would _you_ be?"

The chair fell back on all four legs with a sharp clatter. John paled a little as he detached his eyes from the torn up, dirty robes and paid more attention to Harry's stony face. There was no indulgence in Harry's eyes as he eyed him, and anyone could have told that the man had seen things and gone through trials that made a conversation with the young teacher seem like a ludicrous waste of time.

"Oh — ah, I thought… Well, what do I owe the pleasure — I mean, aren't you an Auror?" John stammered, his confidence fraying under McGonagall's furious glare and Harry's icy cold stare.

A slight smirk crept up Harry's face, and an odd gleam came to light up his dull eyes.

"I am, during the week. But on weekends I usually take a break to do some slaughtering, here and there," Harry nastily answered. "I heard there was a preserve of werewolves near Hogwarts so I took the opportunity. Best night of hunting I had in ages."

John, from pale, went grey. Harry's ferocious smirk would have worried McGonagall herself if she hadn't been busy trying to keep from smiling from ear to ear. Dear Lord — he looked positively _mischievous._

Still grinning, Harry pulled back a chair.

"Are you willing to keep me company?" he asked cordially at the petrified teacher. "I'll try to eat a regular breakfast, if raw meat and blood make you uncomfortable."

John looked as if he was about to be sick; he covered his mouth with his serviette and abruptly rose, involuntarily sending Professor Snape's chair falling backward.

"Actually my breakfast is over," he managed to utter, his voice strained. "I have essays to correct, so I'll — I'll see you later today, maybe…"

"What a shame," Harry idly commented. "I had so many funny anecdotes to tell about last night. Can you imagine that—"

But John was already hurrying away, looking as if he was trying very hard not to break into a run. Harry snickered and let himself drop in his chair. To Professor McGonagall's great satisfaction, the chilling calmness had vanished from his features and a youthful sparkle was back in his eyes. For a fleeting instant, he looked exactly like the teenager he used to be.

They ate in silence for a few minutes that felt terribly long to the Headmistress. A thousands questions were burning her lips, and although she knew that trying to force answers out of Harry was the last thing to do, she started to fear that he would not tackle the subject at all. If he left the Great Hall without saying a word, as she knew he was capable of doing, she would be left with nothing but a deceived hope.

But she should not have worried. Harry had barely eaten two mouthfuls of scrambled eggs when he abruptly put his fork down and turned to her.

"Did you intend me to meet the werewolf pack, Professor?" he asked bluntly. "Is that why you allowed me to spend the night here?"

McGonagall set down her half full cup of tea and rested her forearms on the table, hands clasped together in front of her.

"I wanted you to hear them," she answered just as brusquely. She could feel his eyes fixed on her, but she kept hers resolutely attached to her own hands, strikingly white against the dark wood, polished by time and use, of the staff table. "I wasn't allowed to tell you anything about them, but I wanted you to know."

Another long minute of pregnant silence followed her words. She glanced sideways and saw that he was no longer staring at her; he looked lost in his own world, his eyes misted up, shadows of memories she feared to think about stirring inside of them.

"Well now I know," he said slowly at last. "I've heard and seen them. I doubt they will come back next month… Maybe the month after…"

"What do you mean?" she inquired at once, her eagerness causing her voice to be sharper than what she intended it to be.

His eyes finally focused back on hers.

"I killed their leader," he said with the same odd calmness that he had had earlier. "The pack can't go back in hunting before they've found themselves a new leader. And by that time…"

His voice trailed away again, as if he was not sure how to express his thoughts. Professor McGonagall refrained from drumming her fingers on the table in impatience. Whether it was purposeful or not, the boy was toying with her nerves.

However, what he said next only served to confuse her further.

"Everything's coming back to that Forest…"

Professor McGonagall quirked an eyebrow, but before she had the time to ask him what on earth he was talking about, Harry snapped out of the sombre reverie he had fallen into.

"Would you allow me to shower and change into clean clothes?" he suddenly asked. "I need to go back to Hogsmeade as soon as possible. They'll need an Auror there. Someone got killed."

Her throat constricted at his words, and there was an ashen taste in her mouth when she noticed the lack of emotions on his face as he evoked the victim of the werewolves' fury, but she could only nod in answer.

"You're at home here, Harry," she reminded him in a low voice.

He thanked her, got to his feet and crossed the Great Hall before disappearing again through the tall doors. Professor McGonagall sighed and briefly covered her face with her hands, knowing that no one was there to witness that single gesture of weakness.

Harry threw his head back, exposing his face to the spurt of water. It was one of those moments when he missed the most the years before Voldemort's downfall. He had the faint, almost ghostly sensation of something trailing down his temples and cheeks, sliding past his slightly parted lips and filling his mouth, making his hair stick to the back of his neck and washing dirt and blood off his body. But those impossibly vague sensations could not compare to the light, soft and refreshing touch of water as he remembered it. He could not even tell if it was cold or hot.

He lowered his head again and spat out a mouthful. The water around his feet was black with grime and coagulated blood, and it stank. The stench filled his nostrils at the slightest inspiration, even if it probably wasn't that strong and would have gone unnoticed from anybody else. As his sense of touch disappeared, his sight and hearing, as well as his sense of smell, had developed to a near prodigious extent. Indeed, what most people thought were another strange power of his was merely his body compensating for the loss of one of its senses.

He never was cold, he never was warm. The rain, the wind, clothes or feminine hands, nothing that brushed against his bare skin ever felt soft or hard, smooth or rough. He was cut off from the world, isolated inside his own skin as if he was wearing a thick armour.

He thought he had got used to it. He thought it no longer mattered. He was convinced that he had adapted to that new world where there was nothing to _feel_. As long as anger, sorrow, joy, regret or satisfaction still made his spirit tingle, just as his skin used to react to unusual contacts; as long as betrayal and loneliness could still open deep, bleeding and painful wounds inside his soul, since his flesh no longer was affected by physical injury; as long as all that lasted, he could still call himself a man.

But now… Now, the bloodied picture of a black-haired, maimed body haunted his thoughts, lurking on the edges of his vision and invading his mind every time he shut his eyes; and it was as if he had received a terrible blow on the head. His soul and spirit had gone numb. Unfeeling, uncaring. He struggled to find again in the depths of his being the fury, the rage and the thirst for blood that had run through him the previous night; anything but that cold emptiness within him, that was so horribly reminiscent of the darkest time of his life. But no. Nothing. Just a black hollow.

Oh yes, it was at times like these that Harry wished he could still feel the burn of hot water on his skin.

It was well over eight in the morning when Harry finally left the bathroom, dressed in the plain black robes a house-elf had brought him. It was time to go back to Hogsmeade, where he would be able to help the inhabitants deal with the events of the night of hunting — and most importantly, to gather clues and information about the pack of werewolves. If he was going to risk having his head ripped off for yelling at Robards, he wanted his arguments to be as solid as possible. He was certainly not forgetting the mystery of his identity, but if there was any way he could help the inhabitants of Hogsmeade out, he was willing to postpone his visit to the Forest.

Besides, he had the nagging feeling that the Forest had something to do with the werewolves' odd behaviours; everything always came back to that Forest, didn't it? And there also were those wolves, those silvery creatures oddly similar to his wolf form, and whose eyes held too much wisdom to belong to beasts… Last night hadn't been a parenthesis in his relentless search of who he was; it had been full of new clues. He was sure of it.

Harry met few people on his way down: pale-faced students heading for the Great Hall or the library, a group of Quidditch players — Ravenclaw, if he was to guess from their blue robes — obviously having a practice session, and a few tired-looking teachers, most of whom gave him a surprised "Morning, Mr. Potter," to which he responded with a nod of his head and a vague mumble. Once in the Entrance Hall, he shot a glance inside the Great Hall where were now gathered several students and teachers. Professor McGonagall was no longer in there.

The walk to Hogsmeade wasn't a pleasant one. The wind was stronger than ever, ruffling up trees and bushes, wrinkling the surface of the lake, hissing and wailing against the walls of the castle. The air was full of the sickly sweet odour of mud and rotting wood, and there was no sun. The pale grey clouds overhead reluctantly let through a wan, weak light that only made the grounds look greyer and grimmer.

"Perfect day for brooding," Harry muttered. He turned up the collar of his cloak against the assaults of the wind and hastened his pace, the hems of the cloak fluttering wildly around his legs.

When he arrived at Hogsmeade, he found the village in turmoil; carriages were stationed along the sides of the Main Street and sounds like gunshots echoed from every direction, announcing the return of all the inhabitants who had fled from their houses right before the full moon, and were now Apparating back with the intention to fix the damage as well as they could. Fences were being mended, ravaged gardens were being tended to, security wards were being put back into place. People were pale and looked weary and discouraged. A couple — a tall and lanky man in his late twenties and a woman, about the same age, who was visibly expecting — was apparently moving out, hastily piling furniture into a carriage under the envious stares of their neighbours.

"They were finally allowed to move out?" asked a round, red-faced man who stood at a respectable distance and eyed the young couple with his thumbs tucked in his belt.

"They just got the papers," acquiesced the middle-aged woman that clung to his arm. "And about time, too. This is no longer a place for a pregnant woman…"

Harry's throat tightened uncomfortably. _Finally allowed? Papers? _

A suspicion wormed its way into his mind, so sickening that it chilled his blood. He detached his eyes from the pregnant woman's exhausted face, and in doing so he caught a glimpse of Professor Flitwick: the minuscule Charms Master was precariously perched on an upturned barrel, in front of a house, and he waved his wand in complicated patterns as he muttered under his breath. Ribbons of colourful smoke erupted from his wand and came to circle the doors and windows of the house. _Security wards,_ Harry thought. _Probably strong enough to hold back a dozen werewolves, and I doubt any Ministry specialist would be able to do as much; but there were over thirty werewolves last night…_

A man walked up to Professor Flitwick and started talking to him in urgent whispers. Harry edged closer to the tiny old man and caught a few words.

"…need you to come over to my house and reinforce the spells, Professor," said the man. Sweat was running down his pallid forehead. "Please."

"I can't shield two houses at the same time," squeaked Flitwick, in a testy tone Harry had never heard him use before. "You can wait until I've done this part of the village, can't you?"

"You don't understand! My… my house is right next to—"

"May I offer my services?" Harry said loudly, interrupting the man's frantic whispers.

Flitwick didn't even turn to look in his direction. "Morning, Potter," he said as he moved his wand in narrow circles.

"Morning, Professor," Harry answered distractedly. Then, addressing the man, "Look, I can take a look at your house and help you fix the damage. Even put up a ward or two. What do you think?"

His interlocutor shot at him an hesitant glance, his eyes resting for the briefest moment on Harry's forehead.

"I… hum, I suppose so," he mumbled at last. "Thank you. It's — it's this way."

The man led Harry to the centre of the village. At one point, they had to walk round what looked like a corpse covered with a bloodied sheet, lying in the middle of the Main Street.

"One of yesterday's werewolves," the villager informed Harry. "A woman. She had her throat cut, probably by another of her kind."

"Why did you leave her here?" asked Harry, trying to ignore the icy feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach at the man's words. A woman. The first werewolf he had killed had been a woman…

"We aren't allowed to move corpses around," the man answered in a detached kind of tone. "That guy from the Ministry is supposed to do it, and he hasn't arrived yet."

Harry was then guided to a house standing nearby, on one side of the dark alleyway he had followed the werewolves in the previous night.

"There," the villager said, coming to a halt. "See the house across the street? That's the one they broke into. They killed the occupant. When I learned about it this morning I damn nearly died of fright. When you think they were so close… I could've been their next victim…"

Harry's face twisted in a grimace of disgust at those words, but he chose not to make any comment and started his inspection of the man's house. He soon found out, however, that the werewolves had made no further damage than break a few boards of the fence and ravage a rose bush, and his mild annoyance quickly grew into exasperation.

"…and you understand that a man like me—"

"What I understand," Harry snapped, "is that I'd be wasting my time if I stayed here any longer. I've just put back into place your security ward. As for the fence, you can mend it without my help. On the other hand, you do have my condolences for the destruction of your rose bush."

The man flushed red.

"It's obvious you weren't here last night," he retorted with a kind of stiff dignity. "You don't understand what it feels like…"

_If only you knew,_ Harry thought as he turned his back on the man and crossed the street, walking up to the backyard of the house that had been devastated by the pack.

A dozen curious onlookers had gathered in the alleyway, and tried to peer inside the backyard. But the entrance seemed to be blocked.

"We can't get in?" a woman asked her friend.

"No, apparently, that's where the poor girl was killed," the friend answered in a hushed voice. "The Mayor and the Headmistress of Hogwarts are guarding the backyard until the Ministry envoy arrives…"

They caught sight of Harry and fell silent at once. Another onlooker glanced back and, upon seeing Harry, let out a low whistle that caused several heads to turn in his direction.

"They sent Harry Potter," he muttered. "Maybe they're taking this seriously at last…"

The group turned to look at Harry and instantly broke into whispers, some sounding eager, others worried; but they all parted to let Harry through. Harry had been about to deny being sent by the Ministry, but he thought better of it and walked through them with a murmured thanks. The wall of villagers closed again behind him.

The backyard was exactly how he had left it a few hours ago, except the two corpses had been covered with sheets that may have been originally white — it was hard to tell now that they were soaked-through with blood. McGonagall was pacing, her dark robes billowing around her heels in an almost Snape-like fashion, and she waved her wand around in sharp gestures accompanied by muttered incantations. Harry recognised at least half a dozen different detection spells; she was checking for remains of magical presences. The Mayor of Hogsmeade was sitting on a half-destroyed bench and watched Professor McGonagall bustle about without moving a muscle. He was bleary-eyed and looked thoroughly discouraged.

Harry cleared his throat, causing McGonagall to interrupt her spell casting. She turned to him with a glare.

"Yes?... Oh, Potter." An expression of surprise mixed with intense relief went over her sharp features when she recognised him. "Good. I can use an Auror here. There's something in the air I have never felt before."

"Like _werewolves?_" suggested the Mayor, his tired voice laced with bitter, disillusioned sarcasm. His immensely tall and skinny frame was slumped forward, giving him the look of a great, pale and bearded spider curled around itself.

Professor McGonagall ignored him and raised her wand again. A wisp of blue smoke erupted from it and lazily curled into a spiral, parallel with the ground, that started expanding in all directions, promising to grow as wide as the whole backyard itself. Harry watched attentively the blue rings, that he knew were meant to detect traces left by creatures other than wizards; in two areas of a middle-sized ring, the smoke began to glow red, indicating remains of Muggle presence — it seemed that at least two werewolves had been Muggles. It was rare, but not unheard of, and it certainly indicated that werewolves were growing much bolder; bold enough to dare venture into Muggle areas and bite Muggles, at any rate.

Harry's attention was then caught by a snapping sound.

The most external ring was disappearing. It was as if something huge and invisible was eating it, tearing off big chunks of smoke at each bite with that weird snapping noise. His eyes grew wide: he had never seen the detecting spell being affected in such a way. It usually would just change colours — red for Muggles, black for vampires, brown for Goblins etc. But _disappearing? _

The outer ring was now almost completely gone. Harry looked down at the ground it had been hovering over; unknown creatures had most likely stood there, and had left traces that were responsible for the spell's unusual reaction. Understanding then dawned upon him: the remains of the ring were just above the ground on which had gathered the huge grey wolves. It was the ghost of their presence that the spell was detecting.

"And that's not the end of it," whispered McGonagall, who had been observing him closely. "Look at the centre of the spiral."

Harry did as he was told. McGonagall stood at a short distance from Greyback's covered corpse, and the smallest ring of the spiral hovered directly above it. It looked perfectly normal for a few moments — but then, as Harry looked, the smoky ring quivered before vanishing abruptly, the snapping sound much louder than what it had been for the outer ring. Then, to Harry's stupefaction, the other rings started vanishing as well, as if caught in a wave of energy that spread from the centre of the spiral in widening circles. Soon there was no smoke left in the backyard.

A stunned silence followed the display of Detection magic.

"See?" said Professor McGonagall at last, her eyes glinting. "There was something in that courtyard that was neither magical nor Muggle, nor anything known as of today in the magical world, and that left traces strong enough to not only affect the spell but _destroy_ it."

"But why would the entire spiral be wiped out?" Harry asked with a frown. "The first marks were very precisely located, all around the yard…"

"Well, one of those creatures probably had an exceptionally strong aura," McGonagall replied as she gazed thoughtfully at Greyback's corpse. "An aura strong enough for the Detection Spell to be literally overwhelmed by it. My guess is—"

She stopped talking mid-sentence, as if a sudden thought had occurred to her. Her eyes, still fixed on Greyback's maimed body, widened in something that looked like horror. All colour was drained from her cheeks and the hand holding the wand started trembling.

"Professor?" Harry tentatively called out.

Professor McGonagall raised on him a hollow, almost haunted gaze. Harry swallowed with some difficulty; he had never seen her in such a state.

"The creature's aura," she said in a hushed voice, so that he would be the only one to hear, "is the strongest around the corpse. My guess is that this — this being, this powerful, unknown creature, was the one that killed Greyback."

Harry pensively nodded. She was probably right. The logical conclusion was that this powerful aura was his… And it was of the same nature as the grey wolves'. He somehow had been expecting it. He had suspected that he and the mysterious wolves were of the same kind.

Neither Muggle nor Wizard.

The Third Kind.

It all made sense: the trees recognising him as one of theirs, his feeling of being completely disconnected from the Wizarding World, his unusual powers, and now grey wolves that, instead of trying to take him down, put the werewolf pack to flight and watched him struggle against Greyback… as if _testing him_. And he had passed the test.

On the other hand, he was clueless — and more than a little surprised — as to why his aura would be so much stronger than theirs; but he would worry about that later. Professor McGonagall's reaction to the revelation of the Third Kind's existence was bothering him more: he had somehow hoped that she, at least, would be too sensible to yield to the terror that they seemed to inspire.

But when he looked up and met her eyes again, he realised with a thrill of horror that it wasn't the Third Kind she was concerned about.

_ "I doubt they will come back next month."_

"What do you mean?"

"I killed their leader…"

She knew. She knew it was him who had killed Greyback, leaving this alien aura around his mutilated body. He had told her so himself.

What a _fool. _

"POTTER!"

The furious bark startled him so badly that he instinctively whipped out his wand as he spun on his heels. A beam of scarlet light shot from his wand before he had the time to think, only to collide half a second later against an invisible shield that made it instantly explode in a shower of harmless red sparks. Harry sucked in a sharp breath: the shield had to be an extremely powerful one if it was able to completely annihilate a Stunner as strong as his.

All considerations on spells and shields promptly flew from Harry's head, however, when he recognised the red, round and angry face of Gawain Robards, emerging from behind the curtain of scarlet sparks. He had to refrain from taking a step backward.

"What the _blast_ was that, Potter?" the Head Auror ground out, a blue vein pulsating quite nastily on his temple.

Harry closed his eyes in despair for a brief second. _Good job, Potter. Cursing your own Head of office. Way to start arguing in favour of Hogsmeade. _

"A Stunner, sir," he answered dully.

His — admittedly rather stupid — reply elicited a kind of frustrated bellow from Robards.

"Goddamned useless excuse for an Auror," he spat. "What the bleeding hell are you doing here?"

Harry hesitated, his eyes flickering to the Mayor of Hogsmeade, who had finally unfolded his lanky body and now stood close-by. He had better be careful with what he was going to say.

"Last night… was full moon, sir," he said in a low voice, hoping he wouldn't have to be more explicit.

Robards blinked slowly. "And you had no better place to go than in Hogwarts valley, I presume," he said gruffly as he took a few steps towards Harry, sliding his wand back into the holster hanging from his waist as he went.

Harry shook his head. "I can't see how I could've guessed that this place was out of bounds," he pointed out. "Anyway, I wasn't in the village. I stayed on the other side of the valley. But I couldn't miss the howling."

Somewhere on his right, he felt, rather than saw, McGonagall eyeing him sharply. He refused to look her way, clinging to the hope that she would not contradict him — he didn't want to be dragged too deeply into an investigation on the murders of Greyback and the she-werewolf.

"I see," said Robards slowly, and he edged closer still; his next words were spoken in a very low voice, so that no one but Harry was able to catch them. "Well, it couldn't be helped I suppose; someone was bound to find out about this whole mess sooner or later. I'll let this slide, as long as you keep your big mouth shut, Potter. Some bloke from the Department of Mysteries is to arrive shortly and make all kinds of experiments. I'd rather he would not find you here."

"I understand, sir," Harry said, though he didn't really.

"I'm going to take you back to the Ministry," Robards went on. "Now. I'll come back later if need be — the priority is to get you out of here, and keep you out of the Department of Mysteries' sight. Follow me, we can't Disapparate in that courtyard."

"Mr. Robards," called the Mayor. "What's going on? Have you come to a decision yet? I can't let the inhabitants of my village die…"

"Holy fucking hell," Robards burst out, the explosion so sudden that Harry, McGonagall and the Mayor all flinched. "How many times do I have to bloody repeat it before it can get under your thick skull? I'm doing my best to organise the evacuation of Hogsmeade, and that's all I can do! You are the ones clinging to your goddamned village as if it was—"

"Our home," the Mayor sadly finished. His face was pale but determined. "I can't force the villagers to leave. It's their home. They fought to rebuild it. I won't leave, either."

Robards glowered at him for a few seconds, apparently unable or unwilling to come up with an answer, before brusquely turning around; he walked decidedly towards the alleyway, beckoning Harry as he went. Harry hastily said his good-byes to McGonagall and the Mayor of Hogsmeade and followed his Head of Department.

"Lunatics," Robards spat once Harry had fallen into step with him. "Won't budge. And McGonagall still comes here after every attack, repairing the damage and having her own little investigation. Bitch will get in trouble faster than you can say, 'I fucking told you so.'"

"How so?" Harry asked with a frown.

"Why do you think Scrimgeour keeps it so secret?" Robards snarled in answer. "There's some nasty stuff going on here. The ninth-floor is all over it. Last thing they need is some righteous Hogwarts teacher poking into their business."

"Someone has to help," Harry muttered defensively.

Robards snorted.

"Yeah, someone has to," he growled. "She's a decent woman, no wonder she can't sit back twiddling her thumbs while people are getting killed. I would be doing the same in her position. Doesn't mean it's a wise thing to do; she'll get demoted if she keeps coming here. That half-witted gargoyle of Umbridge—" He spat out the name as if it left a nauseating taste in his mouth, "—keeps trying to get her in trouble. Whore hates McGonagall even more than she hates you, Potter."

"Sir, why—"

"Enough talking," Robards interrupted. "Atrium. Now."

And without another word Robards Disapparated. Harry heaved an exasperated sigh and, after taking care to step in a dark corner where he would go unnoticed, followed suit.

He materialised again in the Atrium, which was completely empty — as it often happened on weekends. Robards was standing close-by, near the huge fountain that stood in the middle of the gigantic room, and was busy discussing with an old wizard Harry had never seen before. He was a small, scrawny and white-haired wizard dressed in dusty black robes, and looked as if Robards would have sent him flying twenty feet away with one slap across the face. In such conditions, it was all the more unnerving to see the worried, almost intimated look on the Auror's red and strong-jawed face, while his frail interlocutor was sporting the calm and self-satisfied smile of a predator cornering its prey.

"…I do not see any hurry, dear Gawain; would you be trying to avoid me for some reason?" the small wizard was saying. His voice was thin, slightly quavering, and he spoke with a light accent that Harry couldn't quite place.

Harry shifted his weight from one leg to the other, unsure if he should make his presence known. An obscure instinct made him more inclined to attempt a discreet retreat, but at this instant the matter was taken out of his hands as the old wizard suddenly turned towards him two grey, oddly luminous eyes.

"Ah, Mr. Potter," he called out in a warm voice; and his polite smile widened into one evoking an old man greeting his favourite grandson. "Good day to you. I am very pleased to meet you at last, very pleased indeed. My dear Gawain, I will only borrow the boy for maybe half an hour. Surely you can go without him for the time being?"

"Listen here, Martin," Robards snapped. "Potter is not in your department, he doesn't have to answer any of your questions—"

"Who said anything about questions?" Martin gently said. "I just want to have a nice little talk with him. I can go and ask for Mr. Scrimgeour's permission, if you like."

Robards' features darkened even more at those words.

"Won't be necessary," he grunted at last. The words seemed painful to utter. "Don't keep him too long."

Robards didn't seem enthusiastic at all at the idea of leaving Harry alone with Martin. He stood there for a few seconds, nervously tapping his wand against the palm of his right hand; and in his frustration, he rapped the wand so vigorously that a few white sparks accidentally shot from the tip of it and bounced off his red calloused skin. Martin stared inquiringly at the Head Auror, an eyebrow raised, and at last Robards seemed to make up his mind and reluctantly held out a hand for Martin to shake.

The hand he had been tapping with his wand seconds before, in fact.

And was it Harry's imagination, or was the handshake a lot stronger and longer than what Robards usually thought necessary?

Or he could have been trying to crush Martin's fingers; a very likely alternative.

"Potter, be careful with what you're telling this man, and get your ass back to work as soon as possible," Robards shot at Harry with a last sombre look, finally breaking the handshake. Then he turned his back on the pair of them and irritably strode to the golden doors leading to the Lift Room. Eric, the security wizard, shrank in his chair as the furious Auror walked past him without sparing him a glance — for which Eric looked extremely grateful.

"Trust reigns," Martin softly commented as he carefully folded and unfolded his bruised fingers, his eyes fixed on Robards' retreating back. "Come with me, Mr. Potter. It will not be long, I promised."

All Harry could do was nod and follow.

The old wizard led Harry in Robards' wake, through the golden grilles and into the waiting room where half a dozen lifts were waiting for them. Robards had already vanished, having probably retreated to the second floor, when they entered an empty lift. Harry was not altogether surprised when Martin lifted a long and pale finger to press the 'Nine' button, but he grew considerably more wary. Unspeakables weren't people you wanted to socialise with; they were smooth liars, deceiving and even backstabbing opponents, and slippery friends — the sort who put their ultimate goals before trifles such as friendship or love. The Department of Mysteries was at their image: an eerie, unfriendly, always changing place. There was nothing frank and reliable about it, and it was, from an Auror's perspective, the worst ground for duelling ever.

Unless you were an Unspeakable yourself, of course. Then you'd be granted such an advantage over a foe that didn't know the Department, that the victory was practically certain.

Martin led him down a long corridor, the very same Harry had dreamt about so many nights in his fifth year, then through a series of doors inside of the Department itself. They finally emerged in a tiny office, cluttered with hundreds upon hundreds of parchments and books of all sizes and shapes, most of which were buried under a thick layer of dust. A desk stood on three legs in the corner of the office, two equally wobbly-looking chairs on either side of it. Martin sat gingerly on one of them and gestured towards the other, an apologetic smile on his face.

"I am afraid we cannot afford luxurious offices, Mr. Potter," he said softly. Harry noted that his accent was more pronounced — it now sounded very similar to Fleur's, actually — and that he seemed to make a point in avoiding common contractions, as if he had such trouble with English that he compelled himself to pick his words very carefully. Harry got the distinct feeling that it was all an act, and he experienced a stab of annoyance.

"No worries," he said stiffly while sitting down.

The old man's smile grew wider still.

"So, Mr. Potter," he said as he rested his elbows on the desk, hands clasped together. "I have heard that you were in Hogsmeade village this morning—"

"Who told you that?" Harry interrupted. It wasn't the most polite thing to do, but he hardly cared. Aurors and Unspeakables hated each other on principle; for once, he, an Auror, had a very good reason to be rude to a most likely high-placed Unspeakable — maybe even the Head of Department, nobody knew for sure who was whom on the famed ninth floor — and he was certainly not going to miss the opportunity.

"I have well-placed informers all over the country, and even beyond," Martin answered without letting his smile falter. "My question was, what do you think of what you saw over there?"

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, purposefully taking a childishly defiant attitude.

"Why do you care?" he lazily shot back. "That's no ninth-floor business. That's our problem. Aurors handle that kind of stuff."

"Oh, this particular matter does fall within our competences, I am afraid," Martin unctuously replied. "This is such a strange phenomenon that it requires full investigation."

"Aurors can do that," Harry stubbornly said.

Martin's smile grew less formal and somewhat fonder, as if he was dealing with a boisterous but beloved child. It made the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand on ends.

"Aurors cannot do everything, Harry," he gently pointed out. "This is abnormal. Even for wizards. We need to research the causes of such a disturbance in werewolves' usual behaviour, and that is why the case was taken out of the Aurors' hands. The reason I am taking the liberty of questioning you, is precisely that we need all the help we can get. I value a lot the thoughts of a brilliant and experienced Auror such as yourself; for in spite of your young age, you know a lot more than dear Gawain Robards himself. I completely trust your judgement."

Harry watched Martin through half-closed eyes.

"You do?" he said.

Martin nodded.

"What I saw," Harry said in a quiet voice, "was three corpses with their throats cut, lying in the middle of the village and only covered with blood-stained sheets. No one was allowed to move them, apparently. I saw people tired and discouraged, trying to fix as well as possible their damaged houses. I saw a pregnant woman _finally_ allowed to move out of her house—"

"Harry—"

"Potter to you, _Martin_," Harry spat out, so venomously that the Unspeakable slightly recoiled behind his desk.

Harry had now dropped the casual, childish posture that had been his; he was on his feet, although he couldn't quite recall ever standing, and he towered over the desk and the frail little man sitting behind it. He leant forward and rested his closed fists on the dust-covered surface, his eyes boring into Martin's.

"You're experimenting," he said in a voice that shook with anger. "On some sick level, you're using the Hogsmeade inhabitants as guinea pigs. They can't leave until they are granted permission. And you don't do a fucking thing. You just sit on your ass and _watch as they get killed!_"

Martin's face changed, so suddenly and so completely that Harry was reminded of the effects of Polyjuice Potion. The concerned, slightly alarmed expression vanished; his iron-grey eyes burned with an anger as cold and sharp as a naked blade, and his smile abruptly vanished, along with all the familiar-looking, grandfatherly wrinkles lining his eyes and cheeks. He rose to his feet as well, and though he was shorter than Harry by a head and a half at least, there was something terrifyingly sinister about that frail old man with his slouched shoulders, glaring up at the Auror in front of him.

"You have seen a lot, Mr. Potter," he hissed, and suddenly the French accent was barely noticeable in his low, icy cold voice. "And knowing the rashness and arrogance that usually comes with your profession, and which you especially are known for, I do not expect you to understand our reasons."

"Your reasons," Harry furiously interrupted, "aren't worth innocent lives, you pathetic—"

"Be careful," Martin said in a very quiet voice. "Be very careful. You have no idea how much power the Department of Mysteries holds. You are standing on the edge of a knife."

Harry straightened up, letting out a bark of laughter.

"Tough luck, Frenchie. Death threats have little to no effect on me; I've been getting two or three a month on average since I'm eleven. Try again."

Martin's eyes flashed again in barely controlled fury. "Are you questioning my power? It is unwise, Mr. Potter. Extremely unwise indeed."

"Are you questioning mine?" Harry shot back, a feral grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "That would be unwise from you, Martin. Voldemort questioned it once. He's been lying six feet under ever since."

Both men stared at each other over the small desk, mocking green eyes confronting blazing iron ones. Harry was enjoying the fight; fights were something he was good at. He had always taken pleasure in a direct, brutal, frank attack, like the one he was leading now — as opposed to the honeyed speech peppered with flatteries that Martin had given him, at the beginning of their conversation: a steel trap coated in sugar. It was all the difference between killing an opponent in a duel and slipping a poison in their drink. The first method was more direct, more honest, and infinitely more satisfying.

That was probably why Harry was completely thrown off-balance when the old Unspeakable abruptly switched attitude once again. Barely five seconds had passed since Harry had tossed Voldemort's name in his interlocutor's face, and he suddenly found himself glaring at a weak, quavering-voiced old man sitting on the wobbly chair, the accent audible again in his speech, his expression sad and weary.

"Mr. Potter, let us not fight," Martin pleaded in that feeble voice of his. "We are allies. We are on the same side. You, as an Auror, and one of great merit too, are of course entitled to give your opinion on this case. I will take it into consideration and ask my team to work harder for the villagers' safety. You have my word."

Harry hastily applied himself to force a blank, neutral look upon his features. Showing vindictiveness in the face of that harmless-looking old man somehow sounded as if he was running headfirst into another trap.

"Fine," he said in a voice as void of emotions as he could make it. "I should head back to work then."

He spun on his heel and took a couple of steps towards the door, eager to be rid of Martin's unsettling and dangerous presence.

"One last word, though," Martin called back.

The young Auror shot at him an inquiring glance over his shoulder.

"Let my Department handle this, Mr. Potter," the old man softly said. "The Minister has given us the case. You standing in our way will probably not please him… And as for your friend, Minerva McGonagall, you might want to tell her that she would be well inspired to mind her own business."

And on the last words, Martin's voice grew lower, colder and sharper, leaving the unspoken threat vibrating in the still air of the underground office. Harry suppressed a shiver and hastily exited the room, without saying good-bye.

He managed to find his way out of the Department of Mysteries again and literally flung himself inside a lift, hammering at once on the _Atrium_ button. As the lift started to rise, he took the time to wipe the sweat off his brow and take deep, steadying breaths.

There were a couple of people he needed to talk to.

_"Atrium." _

Harry stepped out of the lift and immediately turned right, striding to the wall opposite the golden grilles. Three portraits hung there, at eye level, their occupants fast asleep.

"Everard," Harry called, halting in front of the portrait on the left.

The sallow-faced wizard jerked awake and raised his head, using the tip of his wand to push his black fringe out of his eyes as he blinked in Harry's direction.

"Potter," he said, his eyebrows raised.

"I've got a message for Professor McGonagall," Harry said in an urgent whisper.

"All right…" the portrait replied uncertainly.

"Tell her to drop it."

Everard blinked again.

"Beg your pardon?"

"She must drop it," Harry repeated through clenched teeth, his hands propped against the wall on either side of the richly ornamented frame. "Or she'll get in trouble. She shouldn't worry about Hogsmeade anymore. I'm taking care of it."

Everard looked thoroughly confused. "You're taking care of…"

"Of everything. I'll figure it out and I'll put an end to it. I swear I will. Tell her that."

Everard nodded, though he still looked hesitant. "Will do."

"Thank you," Harry briskly said. Then he wheeled around and rushed back inside of the lift, this time pressing the "Two" button.

The Auror Headquarters were much quieter than usual, in the absence of youngest Aurors and apprentices who were mainly responsible for the noise and movement during the week. Only remained the old crowd of Aurors who knew of no such things as weekends, and certainly knew better than to ask Harry questions when he was walking so quickly and purposefully. Harry had worked with most of them during the last year of the war. They were allies, if not friends.

Harry crossed the quiet Headquarters, then the tiny office occupied by Robards' secretary without pausing to glance at her. He didn't bother knocking before he opened the door to the Head Auror's office. Robards was sitting behind his desk, his thick features barely distinguishable behind the usual haze of cigar smoke hanging in the air — but Harry heard the grin in his voice when he spoke up.

"Potter. Have a seat."

For the second time in twenty minutes, Harry was completely destabilised. He had expected another outburst at his rude entry, or urgent questions about his meeting with Martin, or even more threats, veiled or not; certainly not a smile and a calm invitation for him to sit down. Hell, Robards didn't _smile_ at his Aurors. It was against his nature.

Robards insistingly gestured towards a straight-backed chair with the hand that wasn't holding the cigar, and Harry closed the door behind him and went to sit down. The Head Auror remained silent for a few seconds, his small piggish eyes fixed on him, all the while drawing long puffs from his cigar in a self-satisfied sort of way.

"Nice job, Potter," he idly commented.

Harry's puzzlement increased considerably, to the point when he could not even pretend that he understood what was going on.

"Thank you…?" he said uncertainly.

"Martin," Robards said as way of explanation, puffing out a bluish cloud of fragrant smoke. "You nailed the damn Frog's ass."

Harry took the time to take off his glasses and tiredly rub his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Okay, you'll need to explain that one to me," he said at last. "How could you know if I nailed Martin's ass or not while sitting seven floors above us?"

Robards stuck his cigar in the corner of his lips and reached out towards a small box sitting on his desk, in front of him. It was a round box, made of a dark wood devoid of any ornaments; the lid, however, was carved with all sorts of ancient and modern runes. Robards turned the lid three times clockwise without lifting it, then bent over his desk to held the box out to a mystified Harry.

"C'mon, open it."

Harry warily glanced up at the Head Auror, then brought a hesitant hand down to the box and lifted the lid. The box was empty.

_ "Are you questioning my power? It is unwise, Mr. Potter. Extremely unwise indeed." _

Harry almost dropped the box in shock as Martin's voice sounded in the room, as loud and clear as if he had been standing right behind him. It was even more unnerving to hear his own voice answering, the words dripping with sarcasm and more than a healthy dose of arrogance.

_ "Are you questioning mine? That would be unwise from you, Martin. Voldemort questioned it once. He's been lying six feet under ever since."_

"…Mr. Potter, let us not fight. We are allies. We are on the same side. You, as an Auror, and one of great merit too, are entitled to give your opinion. I will take it into consideration and ask my team to work harder for the villagers' safety. You have my word."

"Fine. I should head back to work then."

"One last word, though. Let my Department handle this, Mr. Potter. The Minister has given us the case. You standing in our way will probably not please him… And as for your friend, Minerva McGonagall, you might want to tell her that she would be well inspired to mind her own business." 

There was a short silence, during which Harry perceived the faint sound of footsteps edging away and the occasional rustling of papers. He raised his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Robards silenced him with a rather aggressive gesture of his hand, quietly enjoining him to keep listening.

Then another voice spoke up, also coming from the box; a female voice. An achingly, painfully familiar voice.

_ "That was stupid from you, sir. Harry doesn't react too well to threats."_

"I saw that," retorted Martin, sounding quite vexed. _ "He was bluffing."_

"He was most certainly not," the woman snapped. _"He's got the skill and power to make you wish you had never dared speak to him. The only thing you've accomplished with this ridiculous conversation is raising his suspicions."_

"Do not lecture me," Martin spat irritably.

A few silent seconds came and went before the old Frenchman's voice rose again from the box, low and worried.

_ "He's suspicious,"_ he sighed. _ "In this you're right. This could really complicate our work."_

"Quite the contrary," the woman coolly contradicted. _"Although I wish he'd never come to suspect that our Department is mingled into this, doubtless he will lead us precisely to the answers we're looking for. He has a sharp mind when he thinks things through. Plus, he's a key element to our research. Everything comes back to him in some way or another."_

"True," Martin agreed pensively. _"All the strange things happening around him… You'd be tempted to think he was one of them."_

"Don't be a fool," the woman's voice lashed out with unexpected violence. _"We have evidence of the contrary. Nothing allows you to make such disgusting assumptions—"_

"Calm down," Martin dryly said, cutting across her. _"And please remember that, even if you are the head investigator on this case, I am still your superior. Speaking of which, I'd like to hear the report of your visit to Hogsmeade."_

"Mister Martin—"

"Now." 

There was an exasperated sigh, then the screeching of wood being dragged across a hard surface — the woman had pulled back the wobbly chair Harry had sat upon while he was in Martin's office, and she had settled in it.

_ "Several things out of the usual," _she said in snappish tones; it was clear she was furious at being ordered around. _"I ran several Detection spells. Unknown creatures were there last night, among the werewolves. They aren't wizards, or Muggles, or anything known as of today in the magical world. I'm pretty sure one of them killed the werewolf leader, who was no other than an old acquaintance of mine, a Death Eater known as Fenrir Greyback. Good riddance."_

"Indeed," Martin said. _"I won't waste any time mourning him either. So these creatures show up precisely on the night Potter finds out about the village…"_

"That could still be a coincidence, but—"

"I don't believe in coincidences." 

Silence fell once more. Then Martin's voice rose again, but the words were oddly distorted, unintelligible, as if they were coming from a dying radio; there was a sizzling sound that covered every other noise coming from the box, and then nothing.

"The spell died then," Robards explained. "One or two minutes before you barged in my office."

Harry carefully put the lid back on top of the box, where it slid into place with a slight ticking sound, then wordlessly handed it over to the Head Auror. Robards dropped it into a drawer of his desk.

"The handshake," Harry suddenly whispered, his eyes widening in comprehension.

Robards smirked and nodded in approval.

"Very good, Potter."

"You stuck a tracking spell into Martin's hand… then linked it to this box?"

Robards nodded again.

"Is that legal?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Robards snorted.

"Not exactly. Neither is taking an Auror down to the ninth-floor in order to threaten him. My conscience is clear, Potter, thanks for worrying… Anyway, that was an interesting conversation, wasn't it?" Robards added, leaning forward to tap the extremity of his cigar against the edge of a glass ashtray. "I suppose you've recognised the woman's voice?"

Harry nodded, his mouth dry.

"Hermione Granger," he answered in a toneless voice.

"Precisely. Seems she's been doing a nice little bit of research recently."

"Seems like it."

"What is she to you again?" Robards gruffly asked. "Ex-girlfriend?"

Harry pressed his lips together into a thin line. "Ex-best friend," he corrected shortly.

Robards didn't insist. He leant back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, continuously sending rings of smoke dancing in the already barely breathable air of his office. Harry dropped his eyes to the floor, gladly taking on the opportunity to think quietly while his Head of Department seemed lost in his own musings.

The morning had been eventful, to put it mildly. The day before, he had been absolutely convinced that he was the only one to know or care about the eerie mysteries surrounding the Forest, the long-forgotten Third Kind and himself. No one else was aware that the world had a strange, hidden, and quite frightening third dimension; and if he was honest with himself, he had to admit being quite happy with the way things were. Or rather, the way he thought things were.

How wrong he had been.

It would be a really strange concurrence that those werewolves would _happen_ to wander every full moon so close to the Forbidden Forest — or rather, as close to it as they could get. According to Romilda, they had come there regularly since the end of the war; in other words, ever since Harry had broken into the old core of the Forest, thus waking up the ancient trees. They probably heard a kind of call, so imperious that they _had_ to come back every month in the valley… And of course they would wreak havoc in the only inhabited area they could get into — Hogsmeade.

Also, as Romilda had told him, the Ministry had known about it for months: ever since the attacks had started getting more daring and more lethal. The Minister had undoubtedly promised to help them, but then the Department of Mysteries had got their hands on the case and taken the sickening decision of not doing anything, so that they could observe, undisturbed, the unusual phenomenon.

They had detected the presence of the Third Kind. They had identified them as "neither Muggles, nor wizards." And if there was one place in the world where lost information about the Third Kind would be kept, that was the Department of Mysteries.

In other words, it was highly probable that they knew as much as Harry did. Or even more.

As for Hermione… She was in charge for the case. That could mean only one thing: contrary to what he had thought, she had not tried to push Harry out of her life. She had merely taken the matters into her own hands. In order to heal Ron, Luna and Healer Parletoo, she first had to understand what had hit them; and so, for months, she had been investigating about what Harry had revealed to her — without ever referring to him about it.

That, strangely enough, hurt him. If truth be told, that hurt a lot. He had honestly thought he didn't care much about Hermione anymore; and he hardly ever thought of her, actually. However, knowing that all this time, she had used the information he had naïvely given her in order to find out what he was, never feeling necessary to consult him in the meantime, or even ask for his bloody permission — that was surprisingly painful. And he had every intention to make Hermione understand just how much it was.

Hermione. The Department of Mysteries. Professor McGonagall, too, who now had guessed that Harry was no longer a wizard — if he ever had been. Robards, who probably had learnt a lot by illegally spying on the Department of Mysteries… Harry became suddenly aware that he was sitting in the middle of an intricate network of people surveying his every gesture and trying to figure out what he was.

That changed everything…

Harry suddenly started coughing uncontrollably, his whole body shaking as his lungs attempted to forcibly get out of his chest, his throat raw with all the cigar smoke he had inhaled.

"Smoke's bothering you?" Robards distractedly asked without putting out his cigar.

"I'm fine," Harry managed to croak out, gasping for breath.

He took off his glasses again and wiped his watering eyes with his sleeve. When he had placed his glasses back on his nose, blinking rapidly as to get rid of the last tears clinging to his lashes, he found Robards staring intently at him.

"There's one thing the old Frenchie and I agree on, Potter," the Head Auror said grimly. "I don't believe in coincidences. There are too many weird things happening around you."

Harry had a tired grin. "With all due respect, sir, I wouldn't call that the scoop of the century. That's basically the description of my life from age one."

Robards snorted, although Harry thought he saw the corners of his mouth twitch. It was hard to tell through the smoky mist.

"Good point," the Head Auror grumbled. "But that tops the cake. The Unspeakables are beside themselves with excitement, and that means something really huge is going on. They weren't half as agitated in the Dark Lord's time. He was probably too mundane for those tight-assed mystical apes, come to think of it."

He crushed what was left of his cigar into the ashtray, and immediately lit another that he drew from an open box, with curt and precise gestures.

"You're trouble, Potter," he said in a muffled voice through a fresh cloud of bluish smoke. "Must be in your freaking genes. You're attracting problems. I usually wouldn't give a damn, but _this_ problem is a nasty business. And I don't want the ninth-floor to handle this on its own. They would wait till critical moment before they intervene, and that's usually too damn late. I don't need more corpses; that young woman—" He checked a report written on yellowish parchment, lying on his desk next to his cigar box, "—Lucy Bay, is enough."

Something clicked in Harry's mind.

"Lucy who?" he asked sharply. "Who's that?"

Robards froze in surprise, forgetting to blow out the smoke he had just inhaled, and stared enquiringly at Harry.

"Bay," he answered warily. "Lucy Bay. That woman who got killed by the werewolves last night."

"With black hair?" Harry all but demanded. He dimly registered that he was perched on the very edge of his chair, his hands gripping tightly the sides of the seat.

"What's wrong with you, Potter?" Robards blurted out. "Yeah, black hair. Only thing that was still recognisable after they were done with her. Why the hell is that important?"

Harry sagged back in his chair, feeling strangely drained out as a huge wave of relief broke over him. Romilda Vane was alive. He knew his reaction was hardly rational — after all she wasn't much more to him than poor Lucy Bay had been; but Lucy Bay hadn't been the one he had promised his help to.

"Nothing," Harry finally replied, his face breaking into a wide grin in spite of himself. "Just thought it was… someone else. Never mind."

Robards eyed his suspiciously for a few seconds, then seemed to decide against asking further questions and took a thoughtful puff from his cigar.

"What I was saying," he resumed, "is that I can't possibly get a decent night's sleep as long as I know that the ninth-floor is alone on this case. They'll screw up. They always do. I need someone from my Department on the case, and since you're already knee-deep into this whole mess, I didn't have much choice but choose you…"

"I thought Scrimgeour had given the case to the Unspeakables?"

"He has," Robards confirmed without blinking. "But even if Rufus has always been a pain in my ass, he's still an Auror at heart, and as such he hates the ninth-floor. He wants an Auror on the case. Off the record, though, so the mission is twice as dangerous… You can still back out. Just remember that you'll be Obliviated if you do."

"No," Harry said immediately. "I want to take care of it. I mean, first, that's my job, and second, I promised someone I would help them."

Robards studied Harry's face for a few seconds. "You _want_ to?"

"Yes sir." The words were determined. He couldn't afford to let anyone else take that case, and find out the truth about him before he did.

The Head Auror stared at Harry right in the eyes, his gaze suddenly as piercing as Dumbledore's once was.

"I suppose that's why you came in here?" he asked sharply. "Ask me permission to take over the case?"

"Well… close enough, I guess," Harry answered, his determination wavering as he squirmed a little in his chair.

Robards' face broke into a grin.

"Or rather, ask me for a vacation so that you could discreetly investigate on your own?"

"Yeah, that'd be more like it," Harry muttered.

Robards coughed out another cloud of smoke as he let out a roar of laughter.

"Fine, I see you don't need persuading, that will save us time," Robards concluded, almost jovially. "Tell you what, Potter — it's better that I'd be the one to give you the job. You will be brought to bend quite a few laws while snooping about; don't let that stop you."

His grin faded and he stared very seriously at Harry, his face set into a sinister, coldly implacable expression. He suddenly looked more like the deadly fighter he was known to be, than the irascible and insufferable Head of Department Harry had thought he was.

"Do whatever you feel necessary. Kill if you have to. Break into the Department of Mysteries if you have to. Try not to get caught, because if you do, I'm not sure I can get you out of there. This is some ugly Dark Arts we're dealing with, Potter. Some ancient black power as old as the world… Something that would make the Dark Lord sound like a brat having fun with a matchbox. We have to _crush_ it."

Harry's insides painfully twisted with unease at Robards' words, as if an icy cold hand had grabbed his gut and held it tightly. Apparently it showed on his face, despite his best effort, for Robards looked suddenly more solemn — he had probably interpreted it as a flicker of fear.

"I trust you enough, Potter," Robards said gravely. "Your friend got it mostly right, you have power and skill, although your self-control is something you really need to work more on. Be careful. I won't be able to do a lot to help you. You'd better remember you're alone on this one; don't drag anyone else into this."

"It wasn't my intention," Harry said in a low voice. Too many people knew already.

Robards gave him a curt nod, then reached out and grabbed on his desk a slim folder of greenish cardboard, with the words 'MAGICAL BEASTS IN FROG END' inscribed in black ink with a thick-pointed quill on the front cover; right under that title, thin and spidery black letters drew the names 'Potter and Colman'. Harry needed a good thirty seconds before he recognised the file he and Lance had been working on the previous day, right before he had stormed out of the Ministry. Or rather, the file Lance had worked on while he stared into space.

Robards opened the cardboard cover and started to leaf through the sheets with quick and efficient gestures, the parchment rustling faintly at the touch of the thick, calloused fingers. The folder didn't contain many sheets of parchment, and after a few seconds he snapped it shut.

"There you go," Robards said, lightly tapping the greenish cardboard with his wand. "That's your cover. Officially you're going to Frog End to continue the investigation."

Both men rose to their feet and Robards held out the folder to Harry; the young Auror took it and, after a brief glance at the cover, where now only the name 'Potter' appeared, tucked it under one arm.

"You'll work out the details with my secretary," Robards added as he sat back heavily into his wide chair. "She's no genius but she's trustworthy. She knows your mission is more special than what it seems."

"What about Colman?" Harry asked.

"For Merlin's sake, do I have to do your job for you?" Robards grumbled out, suddenly back to his usually impatient self. "Tell him you're alone on the case now. And tell him I want to see him."

"Fine… sir?"

Robards grunted in answer.

"Aren't you worried that… someone might have used on your office the same sort of Listening spell you used on Martin's?" Harry slowly asked.

Robards raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Let me worry about that, Potter," he said coolly. "No one has heard our conversation, you can be sure of that. You don't need to know anything else. Now off you go."

Harry nodded and stepped behind the chair that he carefully put back into place, ready to leave. Robards didn't walk him to the door, nor did he hold out his hand for Harry to shake. The message could not have been any clearer: Robards trusted him with a mission because he had to, but Harry was still his subordinate, and certainly not his favourite one. The ghost of a smirk came to graze Harry's lips, and he wheeled about without saying a word of good-bye to his superior. He could almost feel the Head Auror's irritated glare planted between his shoulder blades as he pulled the door opened and gladly stepped out into the secretary's wonderfully smoke-free room.

"Potter," he announced distractedly, dropping the folder on her desk. She started and her cheeks flushed red.

"Oh — oh yes of course. Mr. Potter."

She glanced up at him, and he noticed that she tried, without much of a success, to look coldly indifferent. The brief relationship she had had with Lance the previous year had, of course, spectacularly failed, and it had led her to behave very peculiarly whenever she was around him or Harry; said peculiar behaviour involved a lot of stiff backs, red faces and clumsy gestures. Harry couldn't suppress a half-smile, just as he felt a stab of pity for her. He didn't even remember her name. He doubted Lance did.

"Here's some money for your mission," she said stiffly, heaving from under her desk a leather bag of respectable size, and by the sound of it, full of gold. "You won't need to stay at the hotel. I have a couple of connections in Frog End, and you can stay at this address." And she gave him a small white card, bearing a name and an address. "That will be all. Good luck."

Although her dismissal could hardly have been colder and less inviting, Harry lingered, staring in wonderment at the rectangle of white cardboard the secretary had handed him.

"Daphne Greengrass?" he murmured, reading the name aloud.

"Do you have a problem with it?"

He raised his head again to meet the secretary's cold and resentful eyes.

"No," he said politely. "Not at all. Thank you for your trouble."

"Welcome. Good luck, Mr. Potter."

He nodded distractedly and left her office, pocketing the card as he went. The leather bag went to hang from his belt, solidly attached to it by the thin threads maintaining it closed, and after shrinking the folder he slid it in an inside pocket of his heavy travelling cloak.

Saturdays were good days for working at the Ministry, Harry mused as he crossed again the Headquarters and found himself a mercifully empty lift. If the reflection he could see in the mirror sealed into the wall was accurate — one can never be too careful with wizards' mirrors — he was lucky the building had been near deserted. Unshaven, his eyes bloodshot from being exposed for so long to smoke, his clothes stained with the mud from his trip to Hogsmeade and smelling strongly of Robards' cigars, he would probably have attracted more stares than what was good for an Auror with a confidential mission…

"Shower is in order," he muttered aloud, in the silence filled with the rattling and grating noises that the lift made as it took him down to the Atrium. "Then I can go looking for more trouble."

The last visit Harry had to make before he could begin his investigation, wasn't one he was really looking forward to.

First, because Harry's last meeting with Lance Colman had not exactly ended on a friendly note.

Second, because said Lance Colman lived in a kind of cesspit Harry had always been keen on avoiding visiting.

Harry grimaced as he stood on Lance's doorstep and peered inside the flat, through the door he had effortlessly opened. Lance's place consisted in the basement of a sinister building, without air nor light. Lance never bothered to keep his flat clean: the floor was littered with rumpled clothes and bits of old food, and the greying walls reeked with a mixture of cold tobacco and alcohol that never seemed to fade, no matter how many underpaid housekeepers tried to scrub them clean. A single inspiration instantly brought to Harry's nostrils the faint scent of cigarette lingering in the air; it was a sourish, somewhat cold and sickly smell, something that made him nearly long for the strong, rich and vigorous odour of cigar that had been filling Robards' office.

"And people say I'm not tidy," Harry muttered, his tone mildly puzzled as he stepped over what looked like balled dirty robes, dropped inside an old pizza box that had apparently not been completely emptied of its original contents. "Jeez, this place has gotten worse since last time I've been in here."

"You've not been here in ages, Potter," drawled Lance's familiar voice from a dark corner of the room.

Harry whirled about, facing the direction Lance's voice had come from, and squinted in an attempt to distinguish his team mate amidst the confused mess of vague shapes, drowned in semi-darkness, that filled the vast room.

"Don't lit anything up. You never know what can happen here with fire," Lance's voice said again. He sounded almost like his lazy, cynical self, but some syllables came out as much harsher than the slight slur Harry was accustomed to hear, betraying Lance's tension behind the nonchalant act.

Harry nodded, acknowledging Lance's words. He didn't really need any light anyway; his eyes had quickly got used to the obscurity, and he could now see Lance. His team mate sat, bare-chested, in an old armchair covered with a faded velvet eaten by moth in places. Although his posture was slumped, Harry was pretty sure he had his wand within reach and was ready to use it.

"Your Locking Spell sucks," he said bluntly, while he took one or two steps in Lance's direction before halting again.

"I'm watching the door anyway," Lance calmly replied. "And as I said, if you try to use any magic at all in here, you'll be surprised at the results. I'm practically living like a Muggle."

He leant forward and picked up a cigarette from the small rectangular packet that stood out, white, on top of a dark shapeless bundle — more dirty clothes, probably. Harry caught a glimpse of the white stick that Lance brought to his lips, then there was the dry, sharp noise of a lighter; a small flame broke the obscurity, throwing a sporadic light onto Lance's strained features for a few fleeting seconds. He looked more nervous than Harry had ever seen him.

"So," Lance said after exhaling a puff of smoke. "What brings you here?"

"Do you absolutely have to smoke?" Harry asked with genuine irritation. "I've already sat in Robards' office for longer than what's humanly endurable. If I take more tobacco today, I might just as well get myself transplanted cancerous lungs."

"Cry me a river," Lance drawled, but he put out his cigarette nonetheless, crushing the end of it against the armrest of his seat. "So the boss called you?"

"Yeah. He wanted to give me to case on unknown magical beasts."

Lance shifted slightly, his stance expressing an increased attention.

"We both work on that case," he slowly pointed out.

Harry shook his head. "Not anymore. Robards gave it to me, as a kind of personal mission of some sort. You've got to pay the boss a visit before tonight, by the way. He'll probably give you the same sort of dumb assignment."

Lance slumped back in his armchair, his head tilted back so that he was staring at the ceiling. "That all?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Harry answered shortly. "Got to go now."

And without waiting for a response from Lance, he wheeled about and made his way through the rubbish covering the floor and towards the door.

"Harry."

Harry froze, his hand already on the doorknob. Lance had dropped his blasé attitude, and he now sounded tired and even a little depressed.

"I wanted to say… that I don't know what the fuck happened yesterday," Lance said in a low voice. "Just before you stormed out. One minute we're talking, the next you're strangling me and telling me never to threaten you again. I don't fucking get it."

Harry finally turned around, facing again the lonely shadow that was Lance, lost in the middle of his cluttered flat. The white-hot rage he had experienced the previous day partly came back, under the form of a cold kind of resentment.

"Don't you?" he snapped. "Let me put it that way. One minute you tell me that you won't spill my secrets, and the next, you're telling me that I misplace my trust, that I should be more careful… and that one revelation would be enough to break me… And now you have the nerve to tell me you _don't fucking get it?_"

A heavy silence met his words, and Harry let out a humourless chuckle. "Thought so," he muttered in bitter satisfaction. He turned again to leave.

"And where did I threaten you?"

There was not an ounce of defiance in Lance's voice. If anything, he sounded puzzled.

Harry blinked.

"When you hinted that you were in a good position to blackmail me?" he suggested, his eyebrows raised.

"Is that how you've — my God, Harry!" Lance exclaimed, sounding astounded and even indignant. Harry was fairly sure he had stood up, though his voice didn't sound any closer than before. "How could that be — Okay, I probably sounded like an ass, but — I never wanted to — I never — Merlin…"

Harry released the doorknob again and leant his back against the door, his gestures slow and hesitant from the various emotions swirling madly inside of him, and among which dominated bemusement and wariness.

"What did you mean then?" he said slowly.

"Exactly what I said! Don't go trusting anyone with your secrets—"

"Gee, thanks, I had never thought of that. Actually I was thinking about giving an interview to the _Daily Prophet,_" Harry snapped.

There was a short pause.

"Well… at any rate I never meant to threaten you," Lance said more calmly. "So if that's how it came out, I'm sorry… I wouldn't threaten you. You go down, I go down too. We've been working together for years, and the Ministry wouldn't leave a potential witness behind…"

Harry rubbed his forehead tiredly. Lance had a good point. And he sounded genuinely puzzled by Harry's interpretation of his words… Harry was sorely tempted to believe him — it was not as if he was _snowed under_ with friends, after all. He replayed in his head the conversation he had had with Lance the day before, trying to find where exactly he had seen a threat in his words.

There could well have been none, now he thought of it. Or if there was, it wasn't so evident that it required immediate death by strangulation.

"Oh," he mumbled.

Lance chuckled feebly. "Yeah. Oh."

Both Aurors remained silent for a couple of minutes, each trying to process the new information they had both received.

"Must've been particularly tense that day," Harry said at last. "That, and I heard Malfoy say basically the same things once. And I'm dead certain that it was a threat then."

"Explains it," Lance quietly agreed. "Although I still think that, threat or not, strangling me in the middle of—"

"I know," Harry quickly said. "I'm sorry."

No answer came, and Harry wasn't really expecting one. The exchange had fast grown a little too uncomfortable for his liking, and he figured it was now high time for him to leave. Lance didn't stop him.

Harry had reached the top of the stairs leading up to the surface when a last call caused him to come to another halt.

"Hey, Harry!"

He heaved a sigh, then wearily turned around once more. Lance was at the bottom of the stairs, a bare-chested, tousle-haired, blinking silhouette in faded jeans, and his eyes were raised to meet his.

"How did you do it?" Lance asked, without a trace of hostility in his voice.

"Do what?"

"How did you strangle me?" Lance insisted with actual interest. "I mean, you didn't use a spell, or your hands, or anything… It was more as if you and my windpipe had plotted my death together behind my back. Which, you'll admit, isn't a very comfortable notion."

Harry laughed this time, but as he did he realised that he would have a hard time finding an answer to Lance's question. _How_ had he done it? It had seemed like a natural reaction at the moment, he had never thought it through, nor had he ever wondered how he would achieve wandless magic — especially one of such nature…

Lance was still watching him inquiringly. Harry firmly pushed this new mystery to the back of his mind; it would always be time to think about it…

"You don't really expect me to answer that, do you?" he replied with a half grin. "If I did, you'd be able to plot _my_ death with my windpipe in retaliation."

Lance smiled back, and wordlessly stepped back in the shadows of his threshold.

Harry was the one to call out, this time.

"Oi, Colman!"

Lance appeared at the bottom of the stairs again, the old nonchalant grin firmly back into place. "This constant waltzing is getting slightly wearing, Potter," he drawled out. "If you don't want to get out of here, we might have to consider moving in together or—"

"I was going to say precisely the contrary," Harry cut in matter-of-factly. "I'll be out of town for some time. Get out of that hole you call a flat, hire someone to disinfect it, and stay at my place in the meantime."

Harry's keys were already in his hand. He tossed them at Lance, who caught them in a clear jingle of metal, a slightly perplexed look on his face and a question on his lips — but Harry had already Disapparated.  



	13. The Other One

**Chapter Twelve: The Other One**

Frog End was a small town lost in acres of square fields, an isolated island of houses and naked trees, amidst a flat and sullen-looking countryside that stretched interminably under the low, grey sky. A few bushes of dark-leaved evergreens stood at the entrance of the town like watchful sentinels; during the summer, they would provide perfect hiding spots for the children of Frog End. But in the chilly dampness of the coming winter they remained solitary and neglected, except for a few birds dozing on the frail branches, their feathers puffed out against the cold.

The largest bush suddenly shuddered, the branches bent by an invisible strength, dark green leaves rustling as the birds took off with indignant chirps. Then two thick branches parted to let through a man wrapped in a long, dark and quite rumpled travelling coat, a bag hanging from his shoulder.

Harry took a couple of steps out of the bush he had Apparated in, blinking rapidly as he attempted to recognise his surroundings. He was only a few feet away from the rectangular sign bearing the words FROG END in black capital letters, the white rectangle gleaming in the dull light of the cloudy Saturday afternoon. Behind it, the long road of dark grey asphalt ran through the town, splitting in half the group of white houses surrounded by their small gardens.

Harry set off at a quick pace, past the sign and into the town. He absentmindedly whispered the address he had memorised as he walked on the pavement bordering the road, searching for Daphne Greengrass's house. Twice he halted, pretending to look for something in his bag while he quickly scanned his surroundings, his left hand holding tightly on the wand tucked in his belt.

It didn't matter how curious he was at the idea of meeting Daphne again; being asked to stay at her house while investigating on the enigmatic Third Kind, when he had only just noticed a weird connection between the girl and him, was too much of an extraordinary coincidence for his taste. This feeling of a too-good-to-be-true stroke of luck had increased when he had leafed through the 'Magical Beasts' file, the case that served as his "cover", only to find out that those mysterious animals located in Frog End had left wolfish prints all over the place. What was more, those prints were described as too large to belong to actual wolves, but different from a typical werewolf's paw prints.

Unidentified wolf-like creatures haunting Frog End… Harry's cover might well turn out to be much more significant for his actual mission than initially planned.

But what were the odds that Robards would _accidentally_ pick this particular case as his cover? And how could it be another coincidence that, among all the magical inhabitants of the town — and there were quite a few — he would be asked to stay at Daphne's?

The more Harry thought about it, the more convinced he was that the Head Auror knew more than what he had told him. Of course, Gawain Robards couldn't have foreseen that Harry had seen large grey-furred wolves in Hogsmeade — or that he had had a fleeting contact with Daphne the previous week. If neither of those events had occurred, Harry doubted he would have noticed the strangeness of those two choices of Robards'. Such as things were, however, Harry had come to think that he might be nothing more than a puppet, whose strings were being pulled by the Auror Department as well as by the Department of Mysteries… It was even a possibility that Robards and Martin had agreed on putting up a little act in front of him, faking a mutual dislike and distrust… Unless the two of them were in competition on that case…

Those thoughts were all but pleasant. More than anything, Harry hated being manipulated. He just couldn't accept being just a tool, even if it was "for his own good"; at sixteen, when he had only been an underage thus technically powerless wizard, he had arrogantly proclaimed himself to be Dumbledore's man — against Scrimgeour, no less. Finding himself in the position of being used like a clueless instrument, now that he was an adult and in full possession of his powers, was infuriating.

A few years ago, he would probably have vehemently confronted Robards about it; or pointedly refused to do what he was asked. The idea remained extremely tempting. However, by giving him the case, Robards had given him the means to finally solve the mysteries hovering over his head for the past three years; Harry could not afford to let the opportunity slip. He would have to play along for a while.

Whether or not he would keep Robards informed of his discoveries was another question.

A shudder unexpectedly ran up Harry's spine and he slowed down again, and although he couldn't hear anything, he had the certitude that there was something behind him — something that shouldn't be there. Digging a hand in his pocket, he discreetly took out a square wallet of black leather and dropped it to the ground. The worn out leather met the asphalt with a dull thud, releasing as it fell several papers and Muggle coins that scattered on the pavement. Cursing just loudly enough to be heard by someone standing — or hiding — within a few feet, Harry crouched down and started gathering the spilled contents of his wallet. He looked all around him, seemingly looking for more coins that might have rolled further, in reality observing the area. The ominous feeling wasn't faltering.

But then, once more, he found no sign of life save for a couple of harmless, perfectly dull Muggles walking down the street. He wondered if he was getting paranoid.

He slowly rose again to a standing position, putting the wallet back in his pocket and readjusting the bag on his shoulder as he did, and raised his head to check the house number on the fence he was passing.

As it turned out, he stood precisely in front of Daphne Greengrass's house.

Nothing could have distinguished it from any other house he had seen in Frog End; it was a small, square building with walls covered in neutral white roughcast, the garden surrounding it equally ordinary and unimpressive. It was strange to think that this perfectly normal house was a magical dwelling; what was more, a dwelling that served as day nursery for magical children unable to control their own power.

Harry pushed open the white gate that ran all around the garden, and instantly felt the almost imperceptible rippling of the air that signalled the presence of Muggle-Repelling Charms. This was definitely the house he had been looking for.

He crossed in a few quick strides a lawn of grass growing in sparse, graceless tufts, and reached the front door painted in pale blue. At close distance, it was obvious that the house had seen better days: the paint of the door was flaking, and the roughcast on the walls was dirtied by long greyish streaks, left there by rain and pollution; little dirty hands had maculated the lower part of the walls with mud, gouache and colour pencils. Finger marks spotted the panes of the nearest window, which was otherwise blinded by white curtains. No sound filtered through the close door.

Harry rang the bell, at the same time drawing his wand from his belt — just as an extra precaution.

The sound of hurried footsteps reached his ears and quickly grew closer; then a feminine voice spoke up from behind the door, snappish but hushed, as if its owner was trying to sound harsh while making as less noise as possible.

"Who's there?"

"Auror Potter," Harry answered in a ringing voice, curious as to why the woman was murmuring. "I thought I was expect—"

"SHH!" the woman interrupted in a frantic whisper. "For the love of Merlin, keep your voice down! You're going to wake up the kids!"

Harry grinned.

"So you're Daphne Greengrass," he said without lowering his voice.

"Yeah, and you're still speaking too loudly!" hissed Daphne from behind the closed door.

"I'm sorry, I'm not used to whispered conversations with a door," Harry pleasantly answered. "Would you mind letting me in? I'm supposed to spend some time here. You ought to have received a call from the Ministry about it."

There was a short silence, which was broken by the rattle of a latch being pushed. The door opened at last, revealing the petite blonde woman Harry had met the previous week. She was dressed in faded robes, maculated with stains of baby food, and a greyish scarf covered her hair; Harry was amused to notice a line of bright blue paint running across her cheek.

"Interesting makeup," he noted, smirking.

"I make a point in never getting in the way of a child's creativity," she replied stiffly.

"Even when they try to paint you blue?"

"Even then. Are you coming in or what?"

Harry nodded and Daphne stepped aside to let him in; but just as he stepped over the threshold, something moved behind him, on his right — and catching the slight motion out of the corner of his eye, he whirled about, wand at the ready.

But once again, there was nothing.

Except his conviction that _something_ was lurking somewhere close, watching him.

"Potter, it's cold out there. Get in."

"Coming," Harry mumbled, keeping his wand pointed at a corner of the garden; but the skeletal shrubs growing there were perfectly still once more.

He lowered his wand and reluctantly turned round, walking past Daphne who shut the door behind him; if it hadn't been for his increasing anxiety, Harry would have found comical the exaggerated precautions she took in closing the door, obviously doing her best to prevent it from grating or slamming.

Harry detached his eyes from the girl leaning against the door and took a quick look at his surroundings. He was in a narrow, dimly lit hallway cluttered with children toys, most of which had obviously suffered bursts of accidental magic: the bright-coloured wood sported several burns and cracks, and in some places, it had even been twisted in unlikely angles as if it was nothing more than modelling clay. The flowery wallpaper covering the walls was maculated in its lower part with dirty fingerprints, scribbles and more gouache. Here and there, patches of newer wallpaper had been glued to the wall, probably in order to hide the effects of other magical accidents. There was a door on either side of him; at a few steps from where he stood, the hallway stretched on as a narrow corridor, running round a flight of stairs that climbed to the first floor.

"So," breathed Daphne's voice behind him. "Err… Hi."

Harry turned to her and found that she had extended her hand for him to shake, ill-disguised excitement shining in her eyes as she seemed to have forgotten her less-than-inviting behaviour of earlier.

Harry reached out and clasped her hand with his.

It happened immediately: something warm, something pulsating with a kind of wild life, rushed through his arm and spread into his whole body, making his breath quicken and his blood run faster; and for a fleeting instant he was able to feel the softness of Daphne's palm against his, her smooth and warm skin, and a slightly sticky spot on one of her fingers — jam, or honey, maybe — as the sensitive skin of his hand suddenly came back to life.

The Slytherin shuddered and grabbed his hand with both of hers, squeezing with all her might, and her frightfully greedy expression would not have been different if she had been drinking from a spring of clear water in the middle of the desert. But as quick as it had started, the strange flux of living energy between the two of them stopped, leaving them both cold and shivering in the dimly lit hallway.

Daphne slowly let go of his hand, her gaze heavy with wonderment as she stared at him.

"What do you reckon just happened?" she whispered.

Was it the semi obscurity, the sleepy silence lying over the house, or this frail woman whose eyes were glinting oddly as they devoured him? At her question, Harry suddenly felt an icy cold seeping into his chest, bringing with it an unpleasant sense of uncertainty and the greasy stench of fear… Fear of the unknown, fear of what was lurking in the dark, a fear coming from another era. After the rush of fiery energy that had filled him before abandoning him again, the contrast was harsh.

"What? What happened?" he asked tensely in return.

Daphne blinked, and the cold pressure on Harry's heart seemed to lift a little, as if the ancient power that brought back into his veins a fear as old as mankind was taken aback as well.

"Just… just now… We…"

"Shook hands," Harry briskly completed, drawing his wand from his belt and waving it around. A storm lantern, fixed to the wall above the door by a heavy iron bracket, instantly burst into flames and forced the shadows into a hurried retreat. Harry held back a sigh of relief, and experienced at the same time a vague shame at being scared of the dark and the silence.

"We shook hands," he repeated more calmly, putting his wand away. "I agree that's a surprising display of politeness between me and a friend of Malfoy's, but I figured that if I am to stay here, we could just as well get along."

"I… uh… wasn't exactly a friend of Malfoy's…" she said, looking a bit lost.

"Then that's even better," Harry interrupted, smiling in spite of himself at the girl's confusion. "Now, it's not that I don't enjoy talking to you, but I'd like to get to work as quickly as possible… Do you have, I don't know, _rules_ that I am to follow, given that I'm staying at your place? Or can you show me right away where I'm sleeping?"

Daphne blinked again, absentmindedly raising a hand to massage the back of her neck.

"Rules," she repeated slowly, as she visibly struggled to gather her thoughts. "Yeah… Err, not much to say actually… The kids are dropped here around eight in the morning, so that'd be better if you could stay out of the way so as not to freak them out… I'm not washing your dishes, I'm not paying for your food and I'm not cleaning your room. I have enough work as it is. There are a couple of good restaurants in the town so it shouldn't be a problem… Oh, and I'm not doing your laundry either. I think… yeah, I think that's all…"

"Okay," Harry shortly agreed. "Where am I staying?"

"Room on the ground floor. Third door on the right, down the corridor."

"Perfect. See you later then."

Once more, Harry readjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and decidedly turned his back on Daphne. His hostess followed him at first, then visibly changed her mind and started climbing the stairs two at a time instead, her slippers making no sound on the wooden boards. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw her vanish in the shadows that gradually drowned the first floor as the late afternoon light declined.

Another storm lamp ignited at Harry's command in the corridor. The passage was so narrow that he had to push his bag behind his back and maintain it there with one arm as he walked, forcing his shoulders into an oddly distorted position.

"I'd better not get any fatter," he muttered to himself in disbelief as he finally found the door Daphne had indicated. It opened on a rectangular room, which looked like a portion of corridor artificially transformed into a bedroom. It was much longer than it was wide, and it had been soberly furnished with a bed and a desk that were lined up against one wall — thus restricting even more the vacant space in the room. There was only one window, facing the door, and it was taking up the full width of the wall.

Harry slipped inside the room and carefully closed the door behind him. Letting his bag slide along his arm and silently fall to the wooden floor, he raised the wand he had never dropped and started waving it around. Ribbons of colourful light erupted in the darkening room and instantly went to crawl up and down the walls, wind across the floor and lick the ceiling. It lasted two or three minutes, but none of his spells detected a system of surveillance of any kind. The room seemed safe. Having protected the door with a Locking Spell and thrown a Calfeutre Curse around the whole room, Harry sat on a narrow bed covered with a worn-out, but impeccably clean grey bedspread, with the satisfaction of accomplished duties.

"Right," he sighed as he rested his elbows on his knees and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. "Now _think._"

Their handshake. Her hand. A sticky spot on one of her fingers. He thought he could still feel it against the back of his hand; he who, for years, had not been able to tell the difference, to the touch, between silk and denim… What did it mean? Why had he briefly recovered his sensitivity before losing it again? What was the influx of energy he had felt rushing through his fingers, and why did it seem both completely opposite and eerily similar to the cold, animal fear he had experienced only seconds later?

It didn't make sense.

It was completely _absurd._

And he was starting to get bloody tired of it.

"Think, think, _think,_" he muttered furiously, flopping onto his back on his bed, eyes tightly shut.

The energy was related to something Daphne had, or was. That, at least, he was sure of: he had only felt it twice, and both times he had been touching her. But the fear was also related to Daphne; he felt that it was her he had been instinctively scared of, for a second. He had not been able to answer her questions or even hold her gaze. He had had to put on the lights so that he could pull himself together. In short, it was as if the girl had two different auras, and he responded to them in two ways that were diametrically opposed.

Of course, he also had to consider the fact that she seemed as genuinely shocked as he was by the consequences of their brief contact. Shocked and excited about it, as if she had been waiting all her life for such a thing to occur… Had she felt, too, that there was between them an otherworldly connection — something Harry had never experienced with any other human being, Muggle or wizard? It was like two persons coming from the same planet, and meeting for the first time in a world peopled with aliens.

Harry's eyes flew open, and he unseeingly stared at the ceiling of his room as a startling idea emerged from the tangle of his thoughts.

"Bloody hell… She's another one."

Another one…

Another one of the Third Kind, that Kind he had thought extinct except for him and those wolfish creatures roaming about Hogsmeade. Could Daphne have been one of the Wolves that had gathered around him while he killed Greyback? Had she left there traces of her presence that had enabled Robards, or Hermione, to identify her? That would explain why she had been chosen to accommodate Harry during his mission…

Another one. Excitement and nervousness mingled in Harry's mind, causing him to sit bolt upright as he suddenly felt too reckless to lie down. He hoped and feared at the same time that his theory was true. He longed to touch her again, feel again that strangely, wonderfully familiar warmth spread within him; and yet he dreaded the ancient malevolence clinging to her like an invisible shadow…

…Another one?

If they were of the same kind, why had she scared him so much?

Harry ran a hand through his hair and gripped the black locks tightly in a gesture of sheer exasperation.

"Damnit!" he burst out. "No matter how I look at it, I'm always in a deadlock!"

He stood up and started pacing in the extremely restricted space of his room, and he was so deeply lost in his thoughts that he hardly paid attention when his legs knocked repeatedly against the sharp corners of the bed and desk. Daphne was almost certainly related to the Third Kind, in some way or another, but because of that reaction of rejection he had had earlier, he was reluctant to definitely label her as one of them. He needed irrefutable evidence; evidence such as the one he had had in Hogsmeade, when it was revealed than his aura was the same, though more powerful, as those of the Wolves.

He would sit back for the time being.

Watch and wait.

Harry suddenly stumbled forward as his foot got caught in something, and barely saved himself from a heavy and graceless fall by throwing out his hands in front of him. Both hands hit the door before him with a loud bang that reverberated along his outstretched arms and up to his shoulders; Harry thought he heard the bones rattle with the violence of it. Swearing under his breath, he straightened up and looked down to see his foot tangled in the strap of his abandoned bag. Under the shock, the bag had opened, spilling out half of its contents over the floor.

Harry bent down to retrieve the clothes that had most conveniently spread out under his bed, and as he rummaged through the crumpled robes and Muggle clothes, his eyes fell on the greenish folder that he had brought with him. His cover.

He slowly picked up the folder and opened it, his eyes quickly scanning the first pages.

Right. That was where he needed to start.

* * *

The rain was pouring again when Harry slipped out of Daphne's house; the moon was masked and the only light came from scarce streetlamps, burning with a half-hearted orange glow that was hardly able to pierce the blackness of the December night. In the dark and silent town, his head bent and his hands buried deeply in the pockets of his long black coat, Harry was just another shadow.

It wasn't long before he had once more the certitude of being followed. There was a strange noise breaking the monotonous patter of the rain, somewhere behind him; something quicker than a man's footsteps and not quite like the pounding of shoes or bare feet hitting the ground. Yet it was following him. It was steady, stopping whenever he halted and reaching his ears again as soon as he resumed his walk. Harry took the risk of closing his eyes without slowing down, straining his ears in his effort to identify the strange noise — and crossing his fingers at the same time in the hope he wouldn't run headfirst into the next streetlamp.

Nails. Nails or claws, scratching the wet asphalt.

Harry opened his eyes again and abruptly Disapparated.

He had used his strange affinity with the wind again; he seldom used regular Apparition now. When he found himself three blocks further, the air was still swirling around his legs, like long, fresh tentacles slowly uncoiling themselves from him. He stayed immobile for a few seconds, taking in his surroundings; he had Apparated — for lack of a better word — directly at the place where wolfish paw prints had last been discovered. It was a small garden, at the back of a house.

He took a deep breath. It had been a bit of a reckless decision, to walk half the way to this place just to see whether or not he would be followed; but at least now he knew.

"_Finite Incantatem._"

In response to the incantation, the air seemed to tremble like jelly all around the small garden. Concealing Charms, hastily applied there by the Ministry wizard who had first found out about the Wolves haunting Frog End, wore off completely; and paw prints suddenly appeared in the wet ground before his eyes, as if an invisible animal was walking away from him. The prints had been protected by more charms from being erased by time and rain, but it was visible that they had been made several nights ago already. They were definitely, indisputably wolf prints.

Harry crouched down to take a better look at them.

The scratching sound reached his ears at that precise moment. It was behind him — on the small concreted alley that ran through the garden. Right behind him.

Harry abruptly straightened up and wheeled around, his wand in his hand, and came face to face with a gigantic wolf.

It was the grey-furred, blue-eyed beast he had seen in Hogsmeade. It kept its eyes fixed on Harry's wand, its breathing even, its stance calm and fearless. Not a muscle rippled under the rich silvery fur. The Wolf looked as if it had been standing there since the beginning of the world.

Harry's wand fell from his loosened grasp and clattered as it hit the wet concrete. He hardly noticed and didn't spare it a glance. The Wolf's dark blue eyes travelled up to meet his, and again Harry was struck by how deeply _human_ those eyes looked.

The scratching of claws on concrete again, and a low growl. Harry's head snapped to the side. Another Wolf stood on his left, where a second before there had been only air and rain. It looked wilder than the first one. Its limbs quivered with the same kind of barely repressed excitement that had shone in Daphne's eyes, earlier on that same day, and its hazel eyes were just as intelligent as the first Wolf's; but there was also a touch of hunger in its gaze, a greed that reminded Harry of Daphne as well.

The hazel-eyed Wolf let out an odd kind of whimper, its tongue slipping in and out of sight between its long pointed teeth, as it panted in impatience. The first Wolf turned its head to the hazel-eyed one, the motion slow and deliberate, and although nothing in its stance betrayed the slightest aggressiveness, the second Wolf flinched under its gaze and took a couple of steps backward. Its eyes remained fixed on Harry.

The pounding of music accompanied with the low rumbling of an engine made Harry snap out of his trance. Turning around, he distinguished between the houses the headlights of a car running on the main road and heading towards them. Half a minute later, the car took a sharp turn in a narrow street, which was much too close to them to Harry's taste.

The Wolves' claws screeched against the concrete again as they abruptly whirled around and crossed the small garden to the high hedge bordering it. Harry spotted his wand on the ground and hurriedly bent down to grab it; as he straightened up, his eyes met the first Wolf's. Both beasts were immobile near the hedge and staring at him.

Then in a split second, there were no more Wolves standing next to that hedge. Precisely where they had been, Harry caught a glimpse of two tall human silhouettes — feminine, as far as he could tell — carrying on their back quivers full of green-feathered arrows.

"Until next time," whispered one of them in his direction.

Harry suddenly remembered what legs were used for and dashed forwards, his wand held tightly in his hand, while he instinctively called out to both creatures.

"Hey, wait!"

But in the blink of an eye, the two women were gone in a whirlwind.

Harry skidded to a halt just as the headlights of the car swept the garden in which he stood. A second before the beam of crude white light reached him, he Disapparated.

* * *

_Until next time._

Lying on his bed in his small dark room, Harry whispered the woman's words in the sleepy silent that lay over Daphne Greengrass's house. _Until next time._ They had brought him here… There was no doubt about that. They had had him come here, in this town, in this house. They had been following him. They had deliberately shown themselves. What did they want from him?

_Until next time._

When and where would be next time? He had the feeling that they were in control, not him. They would be the ones to pick up the time and place of their next meeting, just as they had done tonight.

_Until next time._

Women. Green arrows. They were the ones who had shot Ron, Luna and Parletoo. It meant that they were the key to their recovery as well. They were those, in fact, that Hermione had been desperately trying to find for over a year… _He will lead us precisely to the answers we're looking for… _Indeed he had.

But there was no way he would let the Department of Mysteries or the Auror Department lay their hands on those creatures. The Unspeakables wanted to lock them up inside the ninth floor, study them, and keep all information to themselves; the Aurors saw them as the deadliest form of Dark Arts and wanted their annihilation. Harry wanted more; he wanted answers. He wanted something to believe in, something to cling to in the uncertainty that surrounded his life and identity. He wanted…

Harry closed his hand into a fist, squeezing until the nails bit in the flesh. He slowly unfolded his fingers and stared up at the red marks, in crescent moons, that his nails had carved into his palm. It looked painful. It wasn't.

…He wanted to be whole again.

The hand that he held up in front of his face started shaking uncontrollably, and he had to close his eyes for a minute as an icy vertigo threatened to engulf him. He was exhausted; he hadn't had any rest for the past four days… He needed to put his body at rest, at least for a few hours, before continuing his investigation…

With a sigh, Harry turned on his side and reached for an empty sphere placed on his bedside table, the glass gleaming dully with the orange light that filtered from the streetlamps through the closed curtains. The sphere was a couple of inches out of his reach. Harry really didn't want to sit up in order to grab it. He really didn't want to straighten up ever again.

"If you would just… roll a little towards me," he tiredly muttered, outstretching his fingers as far as possible.

To his great surprise, the Dream-Injector stirred on the bedside table, as if pushed towards Harry by a small breeze. His eyebrows shot upwards in surprise, the exhaustion weighting on his limbs momentarily forgotten.

Harry's eyes slowly detached themselves from the sphere to focus back on his still outstretched hand; and he froze. There was something moving around his fingers. He could only describe it as wisps of smoke, an incredibly light, barely visible smoke curling around his phalanges. Like small tentacles made of air.

Harry folded down four of his fingers, keeping only his index pointed at the Dream-Injector. He drew one small circle in the air, in a slow, purposeful motion, and he thought he felt a small pressure on the skin of his finger as the wisps of smoke gathered within the circle he traced. It was as if he had created, with the tip of his finger, a closed space in which gas was concentrating…

The circular motions of Harry's index finger grew quicker, more precise, and the pressure immediately intensified. Harry stared, wide-eyed, as the air contained within the limits drawn by his finger condensed in a thick, opaque white mass, which soon glowed with the same orange light that flooded into the room from the window.

He quickly had the feeling that this small ball of white smoke wouldn't take much more of this. It had stopped condensing, looking now almost solid, but the pressure was still growing and would soon become unbearable. Maintaining his arm outstretched required now a great effort on his part. The sound of his laboured breathing filled his ears, his lungs were working furiously — as if there just wasn't enough air in this room for them to fill completely — and his heart was hammering disorderly against his ribcage. He wouldn't be able to go on for long…

With a grunt of effort, Harry folded down his index finger and briefly closed his hand into a fist, leaving the ball of white fog hovering unprotected in the air. Almost immediately though, driven by a sudden intuition, he opened his hand again in one brusque motion, his fingers spread in a fan.

The effect was instantaneous: the ball of smoke hurled itself forward and hit squarely the Dream-Injector, with such force that the glass sphere bounced off the bedside table and was projected towards the opposite wall.

"Oh, _fuck!"_ Harry exclaimed in panic. Spurred on by pure reflexes, he jumped to his feet and threw out his right hand again, succeeding in catching the glass ball right before it connected with the opposite wall.

It would have been perfect, had he not been taken too far by his momentum. He barely managed to shield the Dream-Injector by pinning it to his chest before he violently collided with the wall. Harry caught an ominous crack coming from the shoulder that had taken the worst of the shock, but he disregarded it; the most important was that the Injector was intact.

"Okay, enough experimenting for tonight," he grunted, absently massaging his shoulder as he went back to his bed with the Dream-Injector in his other hand.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the glass sphere resting in his lap, and pulling his wand from his pocket he tapped the Injector once with it. A small thread of what also appeared to be smoke — though it was quite more consistent than the wisps he had just been playing with — erupted from the sphere, like a silky thread from a spider's belly, and lazily stretched out until it was about a foot long. A needle was tied to its extremity.

Harry finally lay down with a sigh of relief and, placing the sphere next to him, he carefully drove the needle into his arm and inside the blue vein running under his pale skin. Immediately the sphere slowly rose in the air, hovering over Harry's lying form, and gradually filled with a bluish mist. Harry sighed again and, after removing his glasses, closed his eyes.

_Well, that was one weird day, _he thought drowsily as the Injector started to act._ The Wolves… Until next time… How did I strangle Lance? … Wisps of air around my fingers… Lance's windpipe… He couldn't breathe… Wisps… of air… I was out of breath… Not enough air in this room… The air… Wait… The wind in Malfoy's tower… That's… it… I need to… _

But there was another sound filling his head now; the familiar song of the trees sounded again from the back of his memory, growing louder and louder, gradually drowning all of Harry's coherent thoughts, while his vision was clouded by hundreds of branches and leaves dancing at a rhythm older than time.

"…Answer me!"

A high-pitched voice tore through Harry's dream, and the vision of dark green leaves shattered as a bright light flashed in front of his face. He opened his eyes in shock, but only to squeeze them shut a second later as he was dazzled again by a lamp held very close to his face.

"What the…" he said thickly, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

He froze when he felt the tip of a wand digging into his throat.

"Answer me," the voice repeated, now less high-pitched but trembling with rage. "No more eluding my questions, no more denying the truth, Potter. Or else."

"Lower the damn light," Harry muttered. The Dream-Injector made him slightly nauseous. "And the needle in my arm. Pull it off."

There was a pause, then the person standing in front of him shifted; the light mercifully dulled, and seconds later a hand felt the crook of his arm and disconnected the Dream-Injector. Harry lowered his hand and blinked several times to clear his swimming vision.

Daphne Greengrass stood in front of him in a worn-out dressing gown, dishevelled blonde hair spilled onto her shoulders and eyes literally blazing with anger. She had dropped her storm lantern to the floor and held a firm grip onto the wand that was still pointed at Harry's throat.

"And whatever could I have possibly done to deserve being awakened at this hour of the night?" Harry slowly uttered.

"Don't act as if you didn't know," Daphne barked, driving the wand further into Harry's flesh. Harry then caught a faint smell, vaguely fruity, that emanated from Daphne every time she made a brusque move.

"What was that anyway?" she added with a glance at the glass sphere resting on the sheets next to Harry. "Some kind of drug?"

"None of your business," Harry snapped. "Now drop that wand before you hurt yourself."

"Not before you answer. What are you? How come you can speak it?"

"Speak what?" Harry shot back at her. "Parseltongue? English? The language of sane people?"

Daphne's eyes flashed with barely controlled fury. "Don't make me hex you," she said in a voice that she tried to make calm.

Harry smirked. "Hex me?" he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"I have you at the tip of my wand," she hissed. "You're disarmed. One gesture and I'll curse you."

Harry raised his eyebrows at her. "Okay," he pleasantly said. "Watch that closely."

Quicker than a snake, he brutally grabbed her slim forearm and deflected her wand, and the curse she screamed out in surprise only managed to burn a hole in Harry's pillow. He pulled her down to him, causing her to lose her balance, at the same time using his other arm to push himself off the mattress and to the side. A split second later, he had her pinned to the bed, her legs trapped between his knees.

_Ah, apricot-flavoured soap,_ he thought, finally identifying the fruity smell that floated around Daphne.

She yelled out in rage and raised her free hand to dig her nails into his cheek. Harry experienced again a slight surge of hot, electrical energy as her fingers made contact with his skin; it only lasted a second before he snatched her hand with one of his and forced it down on the pillow, right above her head. He joined both of her wrists and held them into place with one hand, making sure that he only touched the portion of her arms that was covered with the sleeves of her dressing gown, thus avoiding the contact of her bare skin. He needed to stay focused.

"Now we're talking," he said cheerfully as he looked down at the girl struggling against his grip. Her wand had fallen out of her hand at some time during the fight; Harry spotted it out of the corner of his eye, thrown over the rumpled sheets on his right side. He used his free hand to pick it up, then slid it inside his belt.

"Let go!" Daphne shrieked.

"No."

She was writhing under him in a desperate attempt to escape him; Harry remained silent, patiently waiting until she stopped her vain fight against his grasp and calmed down. And sure enough, it wasn't long before she gave up.

"Let go of me," she pleaded, her eyes closed and her breathing laboured.

"You woke me up holding a wand to my throat," Harry coolly replied. "You'll need to give me a damn good reason to let go of you."

"You'll regret it if you don't," she murmured in a barely audible whisper.

Harry frowned. "What do you think will happen _if I don't_?" he calmly inquired.

She did not answer. Her eyes were closed and her face was screwed in concentration, as if she was struggling with particularly nasty mental arithmetic. Her breathing went more difficult still, her chest heaving painfully with each inhalation, and Harry found out that he, too, was out of breath; as if the air in the room was rarefying.

_Just like when I was experimenting earlier,_ he thought with a jolt of excitation.

It lasted maybe two or three seconds before Harry caught the smell of burning. He looked up and his eyes widened when he caught sight of Daphne's immobilised wrists: thin wisps of grey smoke escaped from under his fingers, and the material of her dressing gown was rapidly blackening, as if they were in contact with white-hot iron.

"Can you smell anything?" Daphne drawled, causing Harry to tear his gaze off her smoking wrists and look down at her. She had opened her eyes again and was smirking quite unpleasantly.

"Yeah, your dressing gown is burning," Harry calmly replied. "I'm afraid you'll have to throw it away."

Her smirk widened until Harry caught a glimpse of a row of white teeth. "I suppose you Aurors are trained to resist to pain or something?" she went on, her voice completely devoid of the rage and fear she had expressed earlier. "But I'm not sure you'll last long. Burns are horribly painful, you know. It'll be easier to just let go of me."

"I have my doubts about that," Harry said evenly. "Now, what about telling me exactly why you woke me up?"

Daphne blinked a couple of time, and for a few seconds neither of them spoke as they studied each other's face. In the silence Harry distinctly heard the sizzling of the flesh of his palms, burning along with Daphne's dressing gown. The heavy, sickening smell of grilling flesh had Daphne grimace in disgust, but her features relaxed again in an expression of wonder and confusion as she failed to see the slightest wince of pain on Harry's face.

"Why did you wake me up?" Harry repeated without raising his voice.

Daphne sighed, her eyes closing in defeat.

"I heard you speak it," she said dismissively. "And I _had_ to confront you for that one. This afternoon in the hallway you wouldn't tell me, but… this, this you couldn't…"

"Speak what?" Harry interrupted.

"Don't," Daphne begged in a low, quavering voice. "Please don't do that, Potter. I'm — I'm going crazy."

"I swear I don't understand a word of what you're saying," Harry said sincerely, but without loosening his grip on her. The smell of burned flesh was stronger than ever. "Did I speak Parseltongue in my sleep? It wouldn't be the first time."

She opened her eyes again and sought his, something like despair veiling her gaze. "No, it wasn't Parseltongue… It was that… language, like whispers," she said, her voice quavering even more than before. "I know only a few words of it, I've known them for as long as I can remember. But you spoke it very clearly in your sleep."

The desperate tone of her voice gradually faded as she surveyed Harry's face, to be replaced by perplexity. "You… didn't know?" she hesitantly said.

Harry shook his head. Daphne's eyes widened slightly, then she glanced sideways at the glass sphere resting on the sheets next to her head.

"Maybe it's got something to do with that thing?" she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Maybe it provokes hallucinations?"

"That's possible," Harry shortly said. He finally straightened up, releasing her, and stood up without looking at her. He picked up his wand on the floor and pointed it at the Dream-Injector.

"_Accio!_"

The sphere flew into his hand under Daphne's excited gaze. "Can't I try it?" she asked, her face shining with hope. "Just once?"

"No," Harry flatly said. He walked up to his bedside table and dropped the Injector inside the bag that lay there, abandoned on the floor.

"Why not?"

"For God's sake, Greengrass," Harry impatiently said. "Try to act a little grown-up! I'm an Auror, if I don't want you to use a rare magical object, I have a bloody good reason for it!"

He fumbled with the bag as he closed it over the Injector; his fingers were folding with difficulty, and he grimaced as he noticed his burned skin, red and quickly covering in white blisters. He picked up his wand again and used a basic healing charm. "What did you do to my hands?" he asked Daphne curiously.

Daphne bared her teeth at him in a derisive smirk, her gaze hard and resentful.

"If I don't want to answer your questions, Potter, I have a bloody good reason for it," she smoothly replied.

Harry arched his eyebrows at her as he leaned against the wall, facing the bed on which she was sitting. He noted that the sleeves of her dressing gown had stopped burning the moment he had let go of her. He was suddenly devoured by the desire to know exactly what she had done, and how she had done it. Her concentration, the way the air seemed to have been momentarily sucked out of the room, just as it had when Harry had created a ball of condensed air, earlier that day… It was significant. Daphne, he knew it, was a precious source of information — whether she belonged to the Third Kind or not. Maybe it was time to try and gain that information from her.

"You want to know about the language? About what happens when we touch?" he asked her quietly.

He could almost feel her going tense as she nodded her agreement. Remembering how she had begged him earlier, how she had whispered that she was going crazy, he felt a stab of pity for her; she craved for knowledge as much as he did, probably even more… and he was going to use that at his advantage.

"Fine," he said brusquely. "I ask a question, you answer truthfully; then it's your turn. An answer for an answer."

She seemed to ponder that for a while before accepting with a short, "Fair enough."

Harry licked his lips, his eyes boring into hers.

"How did you burn my hands?" he shot at her.

"Air," she answered immediately. "I'm not very good at conventional magic, but I can make air do things… Like gather in a very precise location and grow unbearably hot. A talent like another."

_Yeah, I'm sure._ Harry's pulse sped up as he thought that, most probably, his earlier experimenting with the Dream-Injector had been a manifestation of the same kind of power. _Making air do things… _Things like create a ball of condensed air able to hit solid objects, maybe?

"Okay, my turn." Daphne seemed to think for a moment, then slowly asked, "What do you think happens when we touch one another? I mean, _I'm_ having déjà vu, as if I knew you from a past life… Or as if we were from the same family… Do you feel the same way or—"

"Your question, Greengrass," Harry cut in. "Make up your mind."

"Right," she quickly said. "Err, here it is: what do you feel when we touch, that you don't feel with most other wizards?"

"Warmth. You've got a warm skin."

"_Potter—"_

"You've asked me," Harry defensively said. "I answered. I swear on my parents' grave that it's the truth."

She rolled her eyes at him. "That's all?" she impatiently said. As Harry nodded, she incredulously repeated, "_Warmth?"_

"Warmth is underrated," Harry pointed out, enigmatic. He fought to keep a smirk off his face; had he given that answer to Hermione, or anyone who knew about his insensitiveness, they would have known exactly how significant it was. They would have known Daphne had the power to make him recover his lost abilities, even if it was only for a few seconds. Daphne herself, however, had no idea.

Ignoring the exclamation of revolted disbelief that escaped his opponent's lips, he idly went on, "I believe it's my turn… So, what is that language you were talking about?"

Daphne visibly struggled with herself for a few seconds, torn between her frustration at Harry's laconic answer and her thirst for answers. Finally yielding to curiosity, she grudgingly replied, "Well, it's this kind of whispered, lilting language I heard in my dreams when I was a kid… I only know a few words though."

She didn't tell him the words she knew, much to Harry's regret; but then he could hardly expect anything else after he had so cruelly disappointed her.

"How do _you _know of that language?" she asked in a slightly trembling voice; her mouth was still distorted into a hateful grimace but her eyes shone with unconcealed avidity.

"I can't answer that question, Greengrass," Harry apologetically said. "I'm not sure what language you're talking about, since I had no idea I was talking in my sleep; it might have been only the influence of the Injector. But it also could be something I've heard years ago, during the war."

"Tell me," she urged him, but Harry shook his head.

"Not before I'm sure. It could be dangerous information," he said. "And to be sure I'll need to hear what _you_ know of it. What little you can speak of it."

Her gaze hardened. She was smart enough to realise that he had her trapped: he would make her say exactly what he needed to know before he deigned share with her the one bit of information she cared about. She pursed her lips into a thin line and remained obstinately silent, her back straightened up in a defiant stance. She would not give in; not yet anyway.

"Fine," Harry sighed. "Can you Apparate?"

Her eyebrows shot upwards. "That's your question?"

"Yes."

She eyed him, mistrustful, obviously trying to find the trap in the seemingly trivial question. At last she slowly answered, "No… I failed my license twice. Hmm, how could you ignore the burn of your hand?"

"High resistance to pain. I didn't even feel it. What's your favourite colour?"

"_Excuse me?_"

Harry flashed a smile at her. "I've run out of ideas," he explained. "That, and I'd like to go back to sleep, so the quicker we end this game, the better."

She blinked, then allowed a reluctant smile to brighten her darkened features. "Green," she mumbled. "Yours?"

"None. I can safely say that I don't like pink, but that's about it."

Daphne nodded distractedly, her eyes cast down. Her frustrated expression gone, she looked tired and a little lost, all of sudden, sitting in the unmade bed with her too large dressing gown hanging over her frail form; and again, Harry was moved by how helpless she seemed. "Shall we call it a night, Greengrass?" he kindly asked.

"Just one more question," she unexpectedly said, her voice tense and low.

Harry stilled once more.

"I'm listening."

Daphne raised her head to meet his gaze again, and Harry was shocked to see her eyes shining with tears that wouldn't fall. Her voice was quavering like a very small child's when she asked, "Are we special, Potter?"

Harry slowly straightened up and closed in two steps the short distance separating him from his distraught hostess. Seizing her arm, he gently tugged on it to help her stand up. He was at least a head taller than she was.

"Yeah, we're special, Greengrass," he said in a very low voice. "I just need to figure out how."

She nodded again, sniffing slightly; she stood very close to him now, but didn't seem to want to step away. "You'll tell me then?" she croaked out as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

Harry didn't know what prompted him to give her the answer she wanted. She was just too frail, too small, too tired of not knowing, and he was just too used to taking care of everyone's problems.

"Yeah, I'll tell you," he muttered as he led her to the door of his room, then out in the corridor. There she turned to him again and, in a thoughtful gesture, brushed her knuckles against the line of his jaw. Harry repressed a shiver as warmth spread again from her fingers and into his whole body.

"Just warm then?" she whispered, her eyes seeking his. "It's _just_ warm?" Her fingers lingered on Harry's jaw, stretching out to caress his cheek. A different kind of heat flooded through him, as his eyes unconsciously dropped from her face and followed her neckline, sliding down to the point where the dressing gown closed over her chest, barely revealing the hint of a cleavage. He had forgotten what a feminine hand felt like on his skin…

"You really don't feel anything else?" the petite blonde whispered as she edged closer to him still; her hand slid down his face to cup his cheek, and her thumb brushed against Harry's lips.

"Too many questions, Greengrass," Harry finally replied with some effort. "Game's over."

And stepping away from her, he went back into his bedroom and closed the door behind him, this time making sure the Locking Spell was activated. The scent of apricot-flavoured soap lingered in the still air of his dark, empty room.


	14. The Cat and the Spy

**Chapter Thirteen: The Cat and the Spy**

The next morning found Harry sitting at his desk, his legs crammed into the very narrow space bordered with two columns of heavy drawers. His gestures were slow and clumsy; his brain clogged by the last shreds of images and dreams it had produced all night under the influence of the Dream-Injector. Keeping the point of his quill on the parchment required an actual effort of concentration. Twice he considered giving up and going back to bed in order to wait for the effects of the Injector to subside, but both times he rejected the idea. He knew fully well that, should he be lying on a bed with only the cracked paint of the ceiling to distract him, he would automatically start mulling over a certain apricot-smelling woman — and he had no intention to give his tired brain any opportunity to wander into that particular area. Especially, since he suspected that his thoughts towards Daphne Greengrass, if he was to draw conclusions from the extremely vivid dreams he had had all night, would turn out to be all but professional.

"I really didn't need that," he muttered thickly, running a weary hand through his hair. "Okay… Focus. Robards. Yeah."

Harry lowered the quill again to the report he was writing for Robards. It was important to allay the Head Auror's suspicions, if he had any. Otherwise Harry might well see his mission coming to an end in a quite abrupt and unpleasant manner: Robards' words about the Third Kind had been uncommonly harsh, even by the short-tempered Auror's standards.

Making this report interesting and plausible, all the while leaving out the small, most significant details, in such a way that Robards would know the main facts without being able to piece together the jigsaw, was a delicate and tedious task. Harry weighed every word, reread each sentence two or three times, took a thousand precautions before he dared add the simplest phrase. As his mind gradually became clearer, he was able to work faster and concentrate entirely on the task at hand.

A pallid light was already creeping into his room through the frost-covered window when he finished his report. He rolled it into a tight scroll and slipped it into a pocket. Pushing his chair back, he got up, mechanically smoothing his rumpled clothes as he did so, and threaded his way between the chair, desk and bed that cluttered his small room. It was a relief to step out into the corridor, no matter how narrow it was: at least he was no longer knocking his legs on a piece of furniture every two seconds.

Harry reached the hallway and proceeded to cross it, with the intention of getting out of the house and Apparating to a safe location — a place where he would be able to send his report to Robards, through the safe connection the Head Auror had had established between Harry and him. He was already extending a hand to grab the doorknob when there was a sudden slamming noise right behind him: the door that led into the kitchen had just been forcefully pulled open.

"What are you _doing_ here?" an indignant Daphne vociferated from the doorway. Harry, who had immediately whirled around, wand in his hand, relaxed a bit and lowered his arm. However, he did not put his wand away — for Daphne looked as if she was about to hurl herself at him, and if he was to guess from her expression, her intentions were all but peaceful.

"What?" he said defensively. "I can't come and go as I please?"

"It's _almost eight!"_ Daphne replied through gritted teeth. She was already dressed in another set of casual, worn-out robes that were tightened at the waist by a thick leather belt; her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail and her hand clutched a large mug of steaming liquid. "And the kids are usually dropped here at _eight!_ I asked you to stay out of the way; do you think the mothers won't freak out when they see the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived standing in my hallway?"

"All right, all right," Harry hastily said, holding a hand up to interrupt her. "I got it. I'll just step outside and Disapparate, okay?"

Just as he finished his sentence, someone rang at the front door.

Daphne sprang forward with a quickness of reflexes that took Harry by surprise; throwing her cup behind her, through the still open door, she seized him by the arm — thankfully she was only touching his sleeve — and pulled him away from the threshold. Harry heard the cup crashing on the floor of the kitchen in a loud tinkling of broken china, but Daphne didn't even blink.

"Up there!" she hissed, pushing him up the staircase with all her might — which wasn't much. "No time to go back to your bedroom now, she'd see you in the corridor — I'm coming, I'm coming!" she yelled over her shoulder as the bell rang a second time.

She hurtled down the stairs again and crossed the hallway at a run, pausing for one second at the door to turn back to Harry and say, "Find a room to hide in upstairs; and _don't move _until I come up and tell you to. Got it?"

"Open that door, Greengrass, or she's going to break it down," Harry shot back at her, nodding towards the door where, indeed, the woman could be heard knocking insistently. Daphne cursed under her breath and turned her back on him; he turned away as well and climbed the few remaining steps two at a time.

He had just made it to the top of the stairs when he caught a snappy, slightly nasal female voice answering Daphne's.

"…what happened, Daphne? Did you rely on one of those Muggle alarm-clocks again? That's the best way to oversleep, I thought you would know it! Anyway, I've got no time. Damien has the flu, here's his potion, two spoonfuls before lunch and one at tea. Goodbye sweetheart, Mummy will pick you up tonight as usual. Be nice to Daphne."

"Oh, I'm sure he will be—"

"Don't let him near the other children, Daphne. I'm sure he picked up that flu in this house. You should be more careful…"

Harry rolled his eyes and started walking along the corridor, while the woman's voice faded away into unintelligible mumbles. He opened a door at random and peered inside; the door led into a small bedroom, which had two windows offering a view on the front garden and the main street. This was precisely what he had been looking for.

He silently moved across the room, straining his ears for more sounds coming from downstairs; several shrill-voiced children were talking and laughing, and at least one of them was wailing at the top of their lungs. Harry smirked a little as he thought of Daphne, with her frail, delicate-looking body and her bossy manners, stuck with several overexcited magical children — one of which was apparently crying for their mother.

Harry reached the window and, crouching so that his eyes were level with the windowsill, very slightly lifted the yellow curtain hanging in front of the glass panes.

His apprehensions were confirmed: several women were still gathered in front of Daphne's front steps, talking animatedly and showing absolutely no intention of leaving any time soon. He would not be able to go that way; even if he used a Disillusionment charm, he would still have to open a window then jump down before Disapparating, which would not fail to give him away.

With an exasperated sigh, Harry straightened up, letting the curtain fall back into place. He thought of finding a window that would open to the back of the house, thus allowing him to get away; or maybe he would be able to sneak into the living room and use the fireplace — but the kids' presence was a problem. A burst of accidental magic wasn't unlikely when so many magical children were confined in the same location, and it wasn't something Harry wanted to see from up close. He wondered how Daphne was coping with them, and how she fixed the damage they caused. She didn't look all that good at magic.

_In fact, it doesn't look as if she uses magic when she can spare it,_ Harry thought as he took a more attentive look at his surroundings. Indeed, there was an abnormally high number of strictly Muggle artefacts in this room: electrical lamps, an ordinary alarm-clock, sleeping pills instead of the usual bottles of Dreamless Potion and so on. There was even a telephone on the bedside table.

Harry was utterly puzzled: the Greengrasses, he knew, were pure-bloods. Daphne herself had been a Slytherin. And here he was, standing in what obviously was her bedroom, which turned out to look much more like a Squib's room than a witch's. His eyes swept the room as he started to walk, going from one object to another. The mystery surrounding his hostess had thickened even more, and his curiosity was growing accordingly; although he fleetingly wondered if this reluctance to leave Daphne's bedroom had another deeper, less _respectable_ reason. However, thinking he probably would not like the answer, he wisely gave up on trying to go further into the matter.

As he paced, Harry distractedly raised a hand to straighten a framed picture, that hung a little lopsided on the wall covered in a strong-yellow wallpaper. It was one of those habits he still had from living with his Aunt Petunia Dursley for years, and as always, he caught himself just before he touched the picture and irritably lowered his hand again. Just as he was about to turn around, however, something in the picture caught his attention and he stepped closer, curiously staring at the two black-and-white girls who sat, side by side and their arms entwined, on a stone fence.

One of them was obviously Daphne; she looked fourteen or fifteen in this, and although her features and limbs had the awkward proportions typical of most teenagers, the large clear eyes, sharp nose and neatly drawn chin were the same. The girl sitting next to her looked several years older, maybe twenty, and was distinctly less handsome; but there was something in the line of her jaw and in her high forehead that convinced Harry she was Daphne's sister.

Harry suddenly frowned and peered more closely at the unknown girl. She looked familiar. He was certain he had seen her somewhere else… although he was completely incapable of recalling where and when. She was too old for him to remember her from Hogwarts… so where…?

"The kids are asleep."

Harry hurriedly stepped away from the wall, feeling a bit as if he had been caught leafing through someone's personal diary. Daphne was standing in the doorway, and although barely twenty minutes had passed since the first child had been dropped at her house, she was already as dishevelled as if she had been fighting with a gang of wild cats. Oddly enough, she didn't seem surprised or angered to find Harry in her bedroom. Maybe the children had drained her so much she simply couldn't muster the energy for getting angry again.

"Already?" Harry mechanically said, because he didn't know what to say. Then the strangeness of what she had just said struck him, and he went on, "How did you manage to put them to bed so soon? They've barely just arrived… And they certainly didn't sound tired ten minutes ago."

"My little secret," she replied with the shadow of a smile. "That's very useful whenever I need to do something else… I might not be as good a witch as you are," she added, her voice now tinged with defiance, "but I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

"Yeah, I can see you don't use much conventional magic," Harry distractedly noted. He buried his hands in his pockets and leant against the wall, looking at Daphne from the corner of his eye. In daylight she made him think, for some reason, of a young cat: supple and graceful, yet almost ferocious at times, with her grey-green eyes and pointed, delicate features, there was something undeniably feline about her. He had the sudden mental image of her purring on his lap as he scratched behind her ears, and he had to bite the inside of his cheeks to refrain from smiling.

"What makes you say that?"

She sounded quite vexed, and her mouth twisted in a sort of pout that only caused Harry's smile to widen, despite his best efforts.

"On your bedside table only, there's a Muggle alarm-clock, an electric lamp, a telephone and a box of sleeping pills," he pointed out in an amused voice.

"Lord, do you Aurors always spot the slightest unusual thing in any place you find yourself?" she muttered with a curious mixture of annoyance and admiration.

Harry gave a non-committal shrug. "What can I say? I'm conditioned by my job."

Daphne snorted as she finally left the doorway and walked into the room, passing by Harry to go straight to her desk where she picked up a hand-mirror and a hairbrush. Holding the cracked, spotted mirror at arm's length, her eyes narrowed in concentration, she used the hairbrush with her right hand, always repeating the same wide sweeping motion that made her hair crackle with electricity. Harry was once again reminded of the thick, shiny fur of a cat; her hair wasn't white-blonde: it was of a warm, quite rare golden colour, devoid of the reddish gleams that usually go with such shades of blonde.

"I can just picture you," Daphne said as she vigorously brushed her tangled, messy hair. "Years from now, when you're retired, still picking up the dodgy details every time you find yourself somewhere unknown. Or suspecting everyone, like that Moody character. Ten to one you'll go mad."

"Assuming I live to see the age of retirement," Harry pointed out offhandedly. "Most likely I'll end up getting killed during a mission."

He wasn't paying much attention to the conversation; his eyes were following the hypnotic moves of Daphne's hand over her hair, and he had involuntarily straightened up and taken a few steps toward her.

"Optimistic," she commented without turning round to look at him. "I would've thought that after surviving all these years and succeeding in killing You-Know-Wh—"

Her eyes, reflected in the mirror, widened in surprise as she abruptly stopped talking, and her hand froze in her hair. Harry's face appeared right next to her in her hand-mirror.

She wheeled about to find him standing quite close behind her, and instinctively took a hurried step backward — only to find her way blocked by her desk. Harry outstretched a hand, calm and purposeful, toward the mirror she was still holding in her left hand, which now hung limply at her side.

"Here," he said in an even voice. "Let me."

His fingers closed around her hand. He was prepared now for the electric wave that coursed through him at the contact of their skins, and he had to resist the urge to close his eyes and fully enjoy the brutal, almost staggering assault of sensations that overtook him. He raised her hand so that the mirror was held upright once more, then drew his wand from his pocket with his left hand and tapped the cracked surface once. It mended before their eyes, cracks and damp spots fading into nothingness as the mirror shone again with the brightness of brand new objects.

"There you go," Harry murmured; and he released her hand.

Then he felt it again, as he had dreaded he would, the cold, animal fear chilling his blood; the same unreasoned fear he knew to be inspired by Daphne herself, although he had no idea how or why. He took a step backward, his heart starting to race as he fought the desire to run away from her as fast as his legs could carry him. Yet fear could be controlled, he reasoned. Harry had been expected it and he stifled it as best as he could, forcing himself to stare at the woman standing before him — to see her as she really was: a frail, pretty young woman whom he had beaten once already, whom he could beat again should the need arise.

He was surprised to see how _easy _it was. The ominous, rotten aura Daphne seemed to be exuding dissolved in a few seconds, only leaving in the back of Harry's mind an unpleasant sensation of damp void. He took a deep, soothing breath and grinned at a very dazzled-looking Daphne with renewed confidence. She blinked and gave an embarrassed laugh, averting her eyes as she put down the brush and mirror with shaky hands.

"Well, er, thanks for that," she said at last, her voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.

"Anytime," he lightly replied.

She nodded and cleared her voice, leaning against her desk as though she wanted to ensure that she would be supported in case Harry planned to assail her.

"So," she resumed, having apparently gathered a little of her former confidence. "The kids won't wake up before at least an hour and a half. You might leave now, if you still want to."

Something in her tone piqued Harry's curiosity.

"'If I still want to'?" he repeated. "Why, can you think of something that would make me want to stay instead?"

Those words, which Harry had spoken quite innocently, were barely out of his mouth when he realised how they could be interpreted; and sure enough Daphne raised an eyebrow at him, her cheeks colouring a little while a somewhat mischievous smile crossed her face.

"Well, what I have in mind might disappoint you," she said, her eyes sparkling with humour, "but it _is_ worth staying for."

Several emotions and half-formed thoughts swirled in Harry's mind, one chasing the last in a wild ballet — slight embarrassment, annoyance at slipping up, the urge to protest that he had not meant anything of the sort, apprehension at feeling the situation slip more and more out of his control, his natural curiosity, a guilty longing to keep the conversation going in the same completely unprofessional direction, and a vague, extremely vague desire, more guilty still, to just take that step which would bring his body in contact with hers and trap her against her desk—

He blinked. Damnit, the previous night's dreams had a lingering influence on the direction of his thoughts.

Daphne was frowning as she examined his face, as though trying to read his mind through the confused expression he was probably wearing. Harry blinked again and looked away from her.

"I'm not exactly supposed to hang around, Greengrass," he said in a slightly hoarse voice. He coughed loudly before going on. "Actually I should be going now."

To his relief she took the bait and quickly said, a note of urgency in her voice, "Oh no, you _have_ to hear me out, it's — it's about — what we talked about last night."

"Really?" Harry said in a tone he was careful to make sceptical. "We talked about a lot of things last night, Greengrass."

"The… the language."

Harry's heart missed a beat, then started racing again immediately as his breathing quickened with excitement.

"The language?" he repeated slowly. "The one you heard me speak in my sleep?"

She nodded. Her stiff stance gave away her state of extreme tension, and Harry caught a glimpse of her white teeth as she started nibbling on her lower lip. She averted her eyes as if his intense gaze was burning her, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I can show you," she said at last, with the expression of someone finally taking the plunge. "The words I know. I'm going to tell them to you, and you can tell me what it is."

She ventured a hopeful glance at his face. Harry was peering curiously down at her, internally weighing the pros and cons: he really, _really _wanted to hear more about the "language" she had been talking about; but did he want it enough to tell her about the Forest?

_Yes,_ he decided almost immediately. He didn't need to tell her every single detail, and besides, he doubted she would want to spread the knowledge around. That piece of information would be safe with her.

"All right. You have a deal."

Daphne became suddenly much more businesslike. She asked him to sit on her bed, for obscure reasons that Harry wasn't sure were clear to herself, and stood before him with her hands behind her back, looking remarkably like a schoolgirl about to recite a poem; Harry stared at her in confusion as she closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths, her face taking on an expression that looked oddly alien on her. She looked like a different person, all of sudden.

Then her lips parted, very slightly, and a strange sound came out of them; it called to mind a soft hooting, a rustle of leaves and long, profound sighs. It was a sound Harry didn't believe could come out of a human mouth. After two seconds though, he stopped trying to identify it and just revelled in how wonderfully soothing and familiar this language sounded. He could almost catch words — he knew she was talking of silence, of starry nights and of the wind in the trees, although he had no idea what gave him such certainty. It was like hearing again his mother tongue after years spent in a foreign country, to the point where he had almost forgotten it.

He shut his eyes and let Daphne's voice submerge him like a powerful, warm wave, and there was nothing else in the world that mattered, nothing that was worth him interrupting her or even opening his eyes.

* * *

Harry felt good. Much better than he had felt in years, in fact. He was very comfortable, lying on his stomach on a soft bed, his arms folded under the pillow that supported his head. He kept his eyes closed, wanting to linger a little longer in that blurry, ethereal moment between sleep and awakening.

_Wait a second — _sleep?

Harry's eyes shot open, and he had a moment of panic when he failed to see anything other than a colourful blur. Someone had taken off his glasses.

Sitting bolt upright, he felt a blanket slide off his shoulders and fall in a heap at his waist; he completely pushed it away and started groping feverishly for his belt holster. He had been half-expecting to find himself unarmed, and couldn't hold back a sigh of relief as his fingers found the familiar wooden wand, safely hanging from his waist in the thin leather case. He drew it at once.

"_Accio glasses!"_

Like so many times, he only managed to catch his glasses at the very last second, right before they would hit him on the nose. He put them on and blinked once or twice as Daphne's yellow bedroom came into focus. Everything was as he had last seen it, when he had been sitting on the bed and listening to Daphne's singing, except that there was no Daphne in sight. Another difference was that the sky, which he could catch a glimpse of through the pale curtains, was of a dark blue that turned to pink on the horizon — it was nightfall.

He had slept through the entire day.

Harry took off his glasses again for a second as he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He was as fully awake as he had ever been in all those sleepless years, yet there was something different. He felt — so wonderfully _refreshed._ Before, there had always been this lingering feeling of complete exhaustion, this impression that he was drawing his strength from a kind of unhealthy fever rather than from normal energy. From there came his hatred at wasting his time, his lack of enthusiasm for any activity that wasn't absolutely necessary, and also his lack of interest for anything that wasn't a life-threatening situation in general.

He got off the bed, examining closely the rumpled sheets and pillow. Not only had he actually _slept,_ something that hadn't happened to him in over three years, he had also instinctively turned on his stomach in his sleep and hugged the pillow to his face. This was an old sleeping habit of his; however, when he was under the influence of the Dream-Injector, he would always stay flat on his back and never move a muscle. But he hadn't had the slightest dream. He had slept like a baby for a solid ten hours, according to the alarm-clock sitting on Daphne's bedside table.

Harry outstretched one hand, smoothing in wonder the sheets of the bed he had slept on. Where was he, again, right before he had fallen asleep? He had been sitting on this bed… Listening to Daphne… Yes, that was it: the song, Daphne's song, the otherworldly tune she had been singing, and which had sounded so familiar… His eyes had closed and he had easily slipped into a deep slumber…

Someone softly knocked on the door. Harry straightened up at once and stepped away from the bed, feeling yet again as if he was being caught doing something he should not. As he struggled to think of something to do, something to say, the door handle turned with a soft creaking sound and the door was pushed open.

"Oh, you're awake," Daphne said. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her; Harry noted she was wearing a satisfied kind of smirk, and he felt at once a stab of irritation. He hated it when people acted as though they knew something he didn't.

"How perceptive of you," he shortly retorted.

"I would've woken you up sooner," she went on with the same little mocking grin, "but you were sleeping so soundly… Didn't you say you were quite busy, today?"

Harry had to fight back an exasperated sigh; in vexation he brusquely turned his back on her and pretended to search for something in his pockets, in order to give the impression of composure.

"Of course I do know that this song tends to make the listener sleepy," Daphne continued behind him, and the smirk was becoming audible in her voice. Harry's annoyance grew to the point where he would have been glad to hit her with a good strong Silencing Charm. "But I usually use it on _children._ Who would have thought that the great Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the mighty Auror would—"

"Okay, enough of that, Greengrass," Harry barked at her. He had dug up in an internal pocket a scroll of parchment that he proceeded to unroll, without paying much attention to what he was doing. "And I'm not a _boy._"

He regretted at once letting that remark escape him as Daphne burst out laughing.

"Merlin, Potter, you sound like one of the brats I'm looking after," she giggled.

"At least I — _fuck!"_ Harry blurted out as he glanced down at the parchment he had found in his pocket. It was his report to Robards. "I should've sent that hours ago — Greengrass, if you'll excuse me—"

Harry stuffed the report back into his pocket and ran past a taken aback Daphne to the door of the room. He heard her calling after him but didn't slow down, turning instead in the corridor and rushing into the staircase, taking two steps at a time. He jumped down the four last steps and landed, supple as a cat, on the carpet of the hallway. The floor was, once again, littered with toys; and excited childish voices were coming from a room on the right side of the hallway.

"Potter!" Daphne hissed, catching up with him as he hesitated for a second and laying a hand on his arm. "The _kids—"_

"I'm stepping out and Disapparating," Harry ground out. "The bloody kids won't even get a glimpse at me. Shouldn't you be watching them, anyway?"

He shook off the hand she had clenched around his elbow and quickly walked across the hallway, Daphne on his heels; he could hear her cursing under her breath as he opened the door as silently as possible and sneaked out in the clear, pastel-coloured twilight. The children gathered in the living room did not seem to be disturbed.

"Are you going to explain what happened?" Daphne called after him; she practically had to run to keep with his long strides as they both crossed her front garden. "You _promised,_ Potter. Did you recognise the language? And why did you even sleep for over ten hours when I sang that ridiculous little song?"

"Merlin's balls, Greengrass," Harry burst out. "Don't you have _something else _to do than follow me around? Like, I don't know, _doing your job?_"

"Oh, that!" Daphne waved vaguely towards her house, looking supremely unconcerned. "They can survive for half an hour without me, I think."

Harry rolled his eyes. "If I ever have kids," he muttered through gritted teeth, "remind me never to leave them in your care."

"Key word: _if,_" Daphne scathingly replied. "You still have to find a woman willing to get in your bed and stupid enough not to use contraceptives — and _look at me_ when I'm talking to you!"

She grabbed his wrist again in an attempt to force him to wheel about. Harry abruptly halted, digging his heels in the ground, and instead of turning around he twisted the hand she was holding so that his fingers wrapped around her own clothed wrist in a deathly grip. She let out a little scream as he forcefully pulled on her arm, without looking at her, thus managing to drag her around until she stood — or rather, staggered — in front of him.

"You want to tell me something?" he said, looking down into her startled face. "Do it now, please. I don't have time for a great long conversation, I have work to do. Me falling asleep wasn't exactly _planned, _otherwise believe me I would've had more time for you."

He stopped speaking, and although the light was scarce he thought he caught a flicker of fear crossing her face. Even though her authoritative manners had annoyed him more than once since the morning already, he had never meant to scare her, and he felt a little guilty as he released her. She mechanically brought a hand to her wrist, massaging it as she kept her eyes on him.

"We're special, Potter, aren't we?" she said in a surprisingly calm voice.

Harry raised his eyebrows at her, having not expected that question at all. "Yes, we are," he slowly answered. "You've already asked me yesterday."

"Then why are you keeping me in the dark?" she brusquely shot at him. "It's… It's us, against the rest of the world, don't you see? We need to stay close to one another if we want to survive among them all! It's the first time I've ever met someone like you. Someone like me. Please don't push me out. Don't you _see_ we need each other?"

There now was a note of desperation in her voice as she went on, taking a tentative step closer to him so that their faces were inches apart. "I want to help. I want to be _useful._ And goddamnit, Harry, I want to know what the bloody hell is going on. I'm going crazy."

Harry was moved in spite of himself by Daphne's plea. Raising both hands, he took her by the shoulders and gently squeezed, awkwardly trying to bring her some comfort.

"Daphne," he started, very aware that he had never called her by her first name before. She was looking at him wide-eyed, wearing once more that slightly unnerving expression of avidity, hanging upon his every word. He opened his mouth to say more, to reassure her, to tell her he would fulfil his promise to her in time — but then he caught a sudden, out-of-place movement from the corner of his eye.

At this time they were still in Daphne's garden, a square lawn of unkempt grass with a few shrubs growing before the windows of the house; circling the garden was a white, neatly kept fence, inside of which no one could Apparate or Disapparate. Beyond the fence, on a small strip of dirt lining the pavement, was a thick hedge of evergreens. It was one of those bushes that Harry had seen shifting — yet the air of the December night was completely still. Harry tensed, his stomach clenching with sudden apprehension.

"This, this will sound very strange," he hurriedly went on, saying the first words that came to his mind as he strained his ears to catch any noise coming from the bush, "but although I know we, ah, haven't known each other for long… I mean, a day and a half isn't long, right, and, huh, we never used to be close. But—"

Daphne's expression had changed from eagerness to complete confusion. He squeezed her shoulders a little tighter to try and make her understand something abnormal was going on, but he only managed to make her furrow her brow and stare at him as if he was out of his mind. _As long as she shuts up._

"…but, well, it's hard to be living in the same house as you… always seeing you, getting to know you and everything… It's hard to, ah, be living all this and… be expected to forget you once I go away," Harry rambled on. He kept an eye on the evergreen he had seen moving a few seconds earlier; and soon, before his eyes, a branch bent at an unnatural angle, as if pushed down by an invisible hand, and he thought he heard a barely audible whisper — like an incantation. Then, invisible to anyone who wasn't paying attention, tiny twigs disentangled themselves from the branches every single shrub lining the white fence and flew through the air, all of them heading for the bush Harry had first spotted.

"…And after what happened last night, how could I ever forget you?" Harry said, now speaking a little faster as he tensed more and more.

"Harry," Daphne said, her tone suggesting she didn't know whether to be impatient at his raving or completely puzzled.

"And this is why I need to ask you—" Harry interrupted, speaking over her; he slightly shifted her, so as to clear his path to the bush where he suspected whoever had Summoned all the little twigs was hiding. The branches slightly moved again, as if the invisible onlooker had just stood up and was getting ready to leave. "—to GET DOWN!" Harry finished, and he pushed her so violently that she stumbled and fell to the floor with a scream of surprise and pain.

Without taking the time to check if she was all right, Harry ran to the fence, grabbing it with one hand to jump over it; he heard a startled exclamation coming from the bush he had been surveying, and without thinking he blindly lunged forward. His outstretched fingers closed upon an invisible arm and he held on tightly, his other hand reaching for his wand holster. But next second the arm he was gripping seemed to twist from under his fingers and out of his grasp; he understood in a fraction of a second what was about to happen, and bracing himself for the shock, he grabbed the arm with both hands and squeezed with all his might.

The Side-Along Apparition expelled all the air from his lungs, the unnatural pressure on his chest and limbs growing to an almost unbearable level. Harry had not Apparated in the regular way in months, preferring to use the wind, and for a second he thought he had splinched himself. However he did not have the time to check if his body was still whole and unharmed: the oppressive darkness lifted to be replaced by the shady insides of a tiny, low-ceilinged room without windows, and a fraction of a second later he received in his right side a violent blow that almost caused him to let go.

With a grunt, Harry straightened up, groping at his invisible opponent with the hand that wasn't busy squeezing their arm. He soon managed to tear the invisibility cloak off the stranger's body, revealing a thin, moustached, rat-like little man, which he knew to be an Unspeakable.

An Unspeakable who was now pointing a wand at him.

"_Stupefy!"_ the man cried out. Harry ducked out of the way, letting the red beam fly several inches above his head; he had kept a strong grip on the man's left arm, and in moving he viciously twisted it. The Unspeakable screamed in pain but almost immediately sent another Stunner. The second spell missed Harry's head by the quarter of an inch; he smelt burnt hair, and heard something break and clatter loudly to the stone floor behind him — something like a bookshelf.

Harry wrung the man's arm further still behind his back, sweeping his legs from under him with a well-placed kick that brought him down to his knees. Harry dug one of his own knees into the Unspeakable's back, forcibly keeping him on the floor, and promptly seized the man's right wrist with his free hand. He twisted it in one brutal, forceful gesture, and as the spy cried out in pain again, his fingers loosened and the wand he was holding dropped to the floor.

"Much better," Harry panted. "Can't trust an Unspeakable with a wand. Where the hell are we?"

The spy went very still at these words, probably startled that Harry had recognised him so easily. Harry, who had by now caught his breath, gathered both of his opponent's skinny wrists in one hand and started to feel around his waist for his own wand. The struggle had entangled his robes and he had difficulty accessing to his holster.

"It's you I'm talking to," Harry insisted, driving his knee a little deeper into the Unspeakable's back as he still fumbled with his own robes. "Where. Are. We?"

Again, the Unspeakable did not answer. It was at this moment, however, that Harry's robes caught fire.

With a startled yell, he instinctively released the Unspeakable and jumped backwards, his hands reaching up to his collar and hurriedly ripping his flaming robes off his body. The Unspeakable had fallen on all fours and was now scrambling to where his own wand lay on the stone tiles. Straightening, he hurriedly pointed the wand at a black line painted on the floor between him and Harry.

"Oh no you won't—" Harry furiously exclaimed as he finally managed to throw off of him the burning shreds of his robes. His right hand finally found his holster, still attached to the blackened leather belt, and in the blink of an eye he pulled his wand out.

"_Vitraparlor!" _the man squeaked, just as Harry shouted, "_Incarcerous!"_

Thick ropes shot out of Harry's wand, heading straight for the mousy man who looked, for a second, extremely frightened; but then they seemed to hit an invisible wall and bounced, forcing Harry to destroy them with one hasty incantation as they were hurled back at him.

"_Dieu merci_," the Unspeakable sighed, an expression of huge relief washing over his pointed face. He did not spare Harry a glance as he shoved his wand back into his pocket, then drew from inside his robes a small pouch hanging from his neck; from it he pulled out a handful of what looked like little twigs. Harry, who had been disconcerted for a second by the spy's actions, took a few tentative steps towards him; but he soon was stopped by the invisible wall that had sprung into existence between him and the mousy spy.

"What the hell—" Harry muttered, feeling the wall with his hands. It seemed much harder, much more powerful than any Shielding Charm he had ever seen. His eyes travelled around the room, and he noticed that the black line on the floor was continuing on the walls and ceiling, forming a frame for the magical wall.

Clearly the Unspeakable had not created the wall, but merely activated an already existing spell. Its black frame looked brand new; it would be near-impossible to break.

"Number one… right…"

The Unspeakable's mumbles caught Harry's attention again. The spy was apparently sorting the little twigs into several heaps; those were without doubt the twigs Harry had seen him Summon earlier. Actually they weren't twigs, as Harry suddenly realised: they were thin, hollow wooden tubes; the Unspeakable opened one with his wand and Harry was horrified to hear his own voice coming from it.

"…_me falling asleep wasn't exactly planned…"_

"What the bloody hell is that?" Harry burst out, furiously hammering the invisible wall with his fist. "How long have you been recording all this?" he asked with a sudden pang of apprehension.

"Two days," the Unspeakable replied offhandedly, without averting his eyes from the heaps of twigs.

The next question died on Harry's lips at the sound of the spy's voice. There was a touch of an accent in this voice, an accent Harry had heard before, coming from another mouth.

"Martin," Harry hissed through clenched teeth.

He detached himself from the wall and tried Disapparating — he knew where Martin was, he would be able to find him if he managed to get into the Department of Mysteries — but found out, with a jolt of panic, that anti-Apparition wards had snapped shut the moment he and the Unspeakable had arrived in the small room. He ran back to the wall and pressed himself against it again, willing to feel it waver under his weight, under his willpower — in vain.

Panic then turned into fury. The hands he had pressed flat against the invisible wall curled into fists, and it required all his self-control to refrain from thumping wildly against the wall and screaming with rage. Standing there, powerless, while an Unspeakable was calmly sorting out _in front of him_ the recordings of his comings and goings, was simply unbearable.

"You can't go through," the French Unspeakable said as he reached into his pouch again; he sounded almost apologetic, something that did not allay Harry's anger in the slightest. The Unspeakable pulled out of the pouch a fistful of glistening Floo powder, which he gathered into a small heap on the stone floor.

_He's building a secure Floo connection_, Harry thought, dread mingling with his anger. A connection exactly like the one Robards had had built between Harry and him, in fact, so that they could safely communicate.

The Unspeakable finished shaping his little heap of powder and straightened up, turning to Harry again.

"Well, I have to say I regret meeting you in such circumstances, Mr. Potter," he intoned. "I greatly admire you for your past feats. However, unfortunately, I have my orders."

He glanced down at the mound of Floo powder and the little heap of wooden recordings standing next to it. "After I've finished sending the recordings, I will have to erase your memory," he finished softly. "Memory charms are my specialty; everything will go smoothly, don't worry."

"Oh, that's how it works, then," Harry roared, unable to restrain himself any further. "I get my memory erased, I wake up at Daphne's, and I go back to my mission being followed by another piece of filth recording everything I say and do, right?!"

"It is all for the greater good, Mr. Potter," the Frenchman said in the same contrite tone. He raised his wand and crouched down, pointing it at the heap of glistening powder.

"Like hell it is," Harry growled, his anger rising inside of him like boiling water about to spill out. "Like _hell_ it is!"

He banged his fist again against the invisible wall; his breath was getting laboured, and blood flooded his face in such a way that a crimson veil seemed to fall in front of his eyes, tinting red everything he rested his gaze upon. His limbs were quivering with the ancient energy, deeply anchored within him, that had awoken the day he had killed Malfoy. He couldn't control it. It just rushed inside of him, flowed in his veins, pulsed in his heart, spilled out of each of his pores to hammer at the wall that restricted his moves. The Unspeakable had started chanting in a low, soft voice, his wand swirling over the Floo powder; so concentrated on his spell that he failed to hear the ominous sizzling sound that came from the invisible wall, gradually sagging under the pressure of the energy gathering around Harry.

The wall wouldn't break. Harry dimly felt it through the red haze of anger that misted up his thoughts. The Third Kind magic, as ancient as it was, could not break down a wall crafted by centuries of wizarding power and experience. It still stood, shaken but solid, and no frontal assault would bring it down.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel it, the primeval magic bubbling at his fingertips, he who could not feel either warmth or cold; he felt it as clearly as if it had been tangible, and he concentrated all his willpower on it. Bringing down the wall didn't matter, if he could get _through_ it. It was impervious to spells — would it be impenetrable to the Third Kind's power as well? He had to try…

Harry gasped — it was _painful._ He was no longer used to cope with physical pain; and this one was like a wound opened in his magical power. He felt as though a giant syringe was planted in the middle of his chest and sucked his vital energy out. His lungs and throat were constricted, as if the air pressure had drastically dropped around him, and when he tried to suck in a breath he found himself on the edge of asphyxiation: there was not enough air in the room for him to breathe.

The energy kept leaking from him, infiltrating through the invisible wall and slowly gathering in the portion of the room where the Unspeakable crouched, oblivious to everything other than the fire he was building. Already green flames were rising from the ground, casting on the darkened stone walls a ghostly flickering light. The Unspeakable wiped his sweaty brow on his sleeve and laid his wand aside to pick up the first twig.

"To Hermione Granger, head investigator of the Potter case," he slowly enunciated. "Top-priority."

"_No!" _croaked Harry, his voice coming out as a strained growl. His fist abruptly closed in one swift, snappy motion.

All of sudden the Unspeakable's back arched, as though run through by an electrical discharge, and his eyes bulged out of his face while his mouth fell open in a horrified expression. His left hand squeezed shut around the recording he had been about to send, his right flying to his throat and desperately clawing at it as he tried to relieve the foreign pressure on his windpipe.

"I have to say," Harry murmured, still pressed against the invisible wall, his fist clenched, "that I regret meeting you in such circumstances." The spy's eyes widened as Harry echoed his own words, terror painted all over his features. But he wouldn't let go of the recording. Harry tightened his fist even more, Lance's voice ringing in his ears, understanding finally dawning upon him._ How did you strangle me? … It was as if you and my windpipe had plotted my death together behind my back…_

The Unspeakable's face was turning purple with lack of hair and his moves went jerkier, erratic.

"I can't control it," Harry whispered, his own breath coming in rattling inhalations. "I can't stop it."

The Unspeakable fell to the floor where he convulsed, driven crazy by his desperate need of air. He finally dropped the recording he was holding and gripped his own throat with both hands; and Harry watched, as though in a dream, as the recording fell down to the floor.

Right into the Floo fire.

There was a whooshing sound before the twig-like tube vanished from sight. Harry didn't even have enough breath left to swear.

Then, in a final spasm, the Unspeakable toppled onto his side, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. He had lost consciousness.

_Enough,_ Harry thought, trembling all over. _Enough!_

But his fist would not unclench. The fingers remained curled upon themselves as if glued together. Before Harry's eyes, the power he had invoked finished off, merciless, the French Unspeakable.

Without warning, the invisible wall disappeared and Harry fell heavily to the floor. As he lay there, panting and shaking, he thought he could feel the Third Kind magic lazily gathering around him, wrap around his body like a protective blanket, filling him again with the vital energy he had felt ripped from him a moment before. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths, willing his panicked heartbeat to slow down to a normal rate.

"The recording," he suddenly said aloud, his eyes flying open. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees, hurriedly straightening his glasses as he did so. The Floo fire, into which the first recording had fallen, was burning low already. Still, the connection was useable.

If he acted quickly.

But it was also ridiculously dangerous; who knew what he might find at the other end of the Floo connection?

"Hermione," he said in a low voice. "I can deal with Hermione."

Harry scrambled to his feet and stepped over to the dead Unspeakable. He began searching his pockets, avoiding to glance at his blackened, distorted, horribly inhuman face. He took the Unspeakable's badge, without which he couldn't hope to go undetected into the Department of Mysteries, and found around the corpse's waist a strange belt with runes carved into the leather. The runes were blackened, as if scorched.

"Incendiary charms," Harry whispered. At least he now knew how his robes had caught fire.

There was nothing else worth taking from the dead body. Harry straightened up, experiencing a slight pang of regret when his eyes finally fell on the French Unspeakable's face. Killing him hadn't been necessary. The spell, whatever it was, had slipped out of Harry's control.

However, there was nothing he could do about it now. With an effort of will, Harry tore his eyes from the corpse, holding up his wand; a spell destroyed the remaining twigs that the Unspeakable had been about to send — no doubt, Harry thought, the same kind of recording Robards had used against Martin mere days before. How ironic.

Another spell vanished the remains of Harry's burnt robes that littered the floor; he did not touch the corpse, however, fearing that the strain of the spell would drain him too much for his confrontation with Hermione. No charm would be able to trace the Unspeakable's death back to Harry, anyway… It wasn't as if he had used conventional magic to do it.

Harry slid his wand back into the holster and, taking a deep breath, stepped into the dying green fire. The flames licked at the sole of his shoes, dangerously feeble; there was no time to think, no time to doubt again.

"To Hermione Granger, head investigator of the Potter case," he said, intoning the words in the exact same way the Unspeakable had done. He nervously moistened his lips before adding, "Top-priority."

The flames seemed to retract even more, almost disappearing under his feet.

Then, just as Harry let out a tired, defeated sigh, they suddenly sprang high, higher than him; they enveloped him, trapped him in a bright green prison. There was a whooshing sound, and the room disappeared in a swirl of colours.

* * *

A/N: Many thanks to nuhuh for beta-ing this. 


	15. A So Precious Friendship

**Chapter Fourteen : A So Precious Friendship**

It was different from the usual journey through Floo network. Instead of spinning from fireplace to fireplace, Harry was being sucked vertiginously upwards in a large tube of green fire. The magic crackled around him, infinitely stronger and probably far more reliable than the public Floo connection; doubtless it made it near-impossible for the information sent that way to get lost or intercepted.

There was no time, however, to analyse his situation any further or even plan his next move. After one or two seconds, the great green flames around him abruptly vanished and he found himself suspended in the air, weightless and immobile in an impenetrable darkness.

Harry's heart was racing. He could not see or hear anything; his hands trembled with the urge to draw his wand and light it — anything to lift the almost solid blackness that seemed to press on his eyeballs — but he stayed frozen, at the cost of a tremendous effort of will, counting the seconds in his mind. If in one minute nothing had happened…

The badge he had taken from the Unspeakable and pinned to his shirt started buzzing. The noise was hardly audible at first, but soon it grew louder and louder, until it grated so much on Harry's already raw nerves that his fingers itched with the temptation to rip it off and blast it into nothingness. Once again he dominated his instinct: something was happening at last, some kind of identification procedure, he guessed. He would know quickly enough whether or not the badge was sufficient to grant him entry.

Although he had been expecting something of the sort, Harry had to bite back a startled exclamation when a cool female voice echoed in the darkness.

"_Unspeakable Jean-Louis Dramont. Identified."_

Those words had barely sounded when the blackness lifted, without any warning whatsoever, and Harry's hovering feet met a smooth wooden floor, the boards cracking in protest. He staggered a little, raising one hand to shield his eyes from the sudden and dazzling light, his other hand automatically coming to rest on the handle of his wand.

A small, but handsome, round room came into focus as Harry slowly lowered his hand again. The floor and circular wall were made out of a dark wood gleaming with freshly applied wax, and heavily loaded bookshelves ran all along the wall. Immediately on his left bright flames danced in a small stony fireplace, behind grates blackened with soot.

"What the hell are you doing here, Dramont?"

Harry spun around, his heart leaping in his chest as the dry, terribly familiar voice rang out from somewhere behind him.

There she was, sitting at a large mahogany desk lit with a magnificent gold candelabra. The desk was facing the fireplace, but it had been placed at such a distance that it stood out of the pool of light thrown on the wooden floor by the crackling fire. In the soft, dim light of the candelabra, Harry could barely make out Hermione's features. Her head was bowed, her bushy hair tied back in a ponytail, and her shoulders slightly hunched. He knew very well that stance of hers: it was one of deep concentration. Even though she did not raise her head to look at him as she spoke, he could picture her face — her furrowed brow, her hand holding a quill she was absently chewing on, and her eyes fixed intently on whatever she was studying. This time she was studying a small object, no bigger than a chess pawn, held between her thumb and forefinger.

If he was to guess from her question, she most likely had not been able to distinguish his features as he stood in front of the roaring fire.

"Dramont is unavailable, I'm afraid," Harry said quietly.

Hermione would not have had a different reaction if he had just yelled in her ear. She started so badly that the small object she had been peering at dropped out of her grasp; her eyes were wide and incredulous as her head shot up and back stiffened. She paled when her stare met his, and Harry saw her right arm shift slightly. Her hand was hidden from him in the shadows, but he didn't doubt it had just slid into her wand pocket.

Harry took a few steps forward, letting the golden light of the candelabra fall on his face. It was strange to see her again. He was assailed with conflicting emotions, his memories of her from Hogwarts clashing with his knowledge of her betrayal, and at the same time he was completely numb, cold, and clinically analytic. It was as if his internal struggle was only of secondary importance, therefore had to be relegated to the back of his mind for the time being. He stared into her face and stored the details in his mind for later use, more like an Auror seeing a potential informant or suspect than a man meeting a long-lost friend. Her features were the same, he noted, yet her expression, even now that she was taken by surprise, was harder and colder than it used to be. Hermione had the white, drawn face of a workaholic.

Harry saw Hermione tense as he drew closer, and caught the fleeting, nervous flick of her eyes to the wand hanging from his belt. He did not draw it; quite the contrary, he halted and let drop the hand that had been brushing against the wand handle, remaining obnoxiously unarmed.

Hermione's wariness did not seem to be allayed in the slightest by Harry's apparent pacifism. However, a little colour flooded her pale cheeks and she lifted her chin, likely an in involuntary gesture of defiance.

"Harry. Nice from you to drop by, aren't you a little lightly dressed for the season?" As she spoke, her eyes trailed on the tight undershirt and worn-out trousers, blackened and scorched in places, which Harry had worn beneath his now destroyed robes.

"An accident with an incendiary charm," Harry answered, in the same light, unconcerned tone she was using. "Doesn't matter, I'm not feeling cold."

Hermione's lips tightened in a fine line at this mention of Harry's insensitivity. As Harry had expected, she did not let the conversation wander in that area, and asked instead, "Would you care to tell me how you found yourself in possession of Dramont's badge?"

Harry tilted his head to one side, a lopsided grin grazing his face.

"Maybe he gave it to me."

"Or maybe you managed to steal the badge, the spell, and the code phrase to make the secure connection to this office."

"Yeah, I'm good, am I not?" Harry said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he put his hands in his pockets, his grin widening.

The shadow of a smile tugged at the corners of Hermione's lips. She leant back in her chair, studying him through lowered eyelids, as if she didn't want her eyes to give her thoughts away.

"How damaged is he?" she asked evenly.

"Now Hermione, why would you assume I damaged him?"

Hermione snorted. "Because that's what you do, Harry. If someone stands in your way, they don't walk out whole and unharmed. Hell, after you dealt with Malfoy, he was found with part of his throat missing."

Silence fell, barely disturbed by the hissing and crackling of the fire.

Harry felt as if a bucket of icy cold water had been emptied over his head. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as they stared at Hermione in stupefaction. A part of his brain screamed at him to keep talking, to prevent her from taking the upper hand, but words seemed to die into astonished silence before they reached his lips. Hermione met his incredulous gaze with a faint smile, opening her eyes to look directly into his.

"Did you think I wouldn't guess it was you? Did you think I wouldn't make the connection between your presence at Malfoy Manor, and the murder of Draco Malfoy by an animal leaving behind a _wolf's paw prints?_"

Her tone was soft, almost kind, yet it caused a shiver to run up Harry's spine. There was something horribly wrong about that apparent gentleness, about the way she looked at him with this strange fondness glinting in her eyes. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach as her words sunk in.

"Of course," he murmured, comprehension dawning upon him. "I had told you…"

She smiled again, a nonchalant, unconcerned sort of smile that did not reach her eyes.

"You had told me," she repeated. "You had told both Ron and I. Of course Ron didn't get the chance to spread that knowledge around, did he?"

"He would never have. He wouldn't have told anyone," Harry said instantly. The shock tinted with apprehension that Hermione's words had caused was now fading; his anger, the same fury that had hurled the Third Kind magic at the late Dramont was pulsing through his veins again, white-hot and destructive.

"Nor would he have used that knowledge against me," he finished, his voice dropping to an almost animal, almost wolfish growl.

"Your faith in Ron is absolutely touching," Hermione retorted, irony audible in each of her intonations. "Too bad it drove him straight into St. Mungo's."

It took all of Harry's willpower to refrain from drawing his wand and hitting her with a curse. His hands were shaking, and when he answered, he found that his voice was quivering with his effort to keep it even.

"And I suppose that, when you're letting werewolves savage a village again and again, or when you're spying on me and trying to use all I told you against me, you're honouring Ron's memory?" he asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.

"Who said I was responsible for the werewolves' attacks in Hogsmeade?"

"You were there yesterday morning," Harry snarled; the words he had heard the day before through Robards' Tracking Spell were ringing in his mind. "You went there after every single attack, trying to track down things that were 'out of the ordinary', running Detection Spells."

"You don't know that," Hermione quickly said, but she had not been able to suppress an abrupt twitch of her hand at his words. Harry laughed, and the sound was echoed in the room and hurled back in a sinister cackle.

"Just as you don't know who Malfoy's killer really is," he harshly shot back at her, and she recoiled a little as his fury poured out of him like scorching lava. "Save it, Hermione. Neither of us was ever good at hiding things for the other. We've known each other for too long."

"Then you would know it's not wise to go against me," she hissed, her own anger flashing in her eyes. "Even for you."

"You've said it yourself, Hermione…"

Harry took the step that separated him from her desk and leant over it, his closed fists resting on the polished surface. Hermione tensed even more in her seat, one hand buried in her pocket and the other gripping the armrest so tightly that her knuckles turned white, as she poised herself for jumping to her feet.

"You've said yourself," Harry repeated in a breath, "that nobody standing in my way never walked away whole and unharmed. Nobody."

His eyes sought and met Hermione's again. Her stare was strikingly similar to Narcissa Malfoy's, brimming over with inexpressible hatred and pain. Something broke inside of him, somewhere in the deep, almost forgotten part of him that still linked him to what he used to be. But his anger mercifully stifled every other feeling, silenced his memory, and dulled his pain. He met her glare with one of his own, one that carried his hurt and anger at everything that had gone wrong since the end of the war, because of him and in spite of him, within him and around him.

"Get out of my office," she ordered in a low voice. "Now."

Harry leant his forearms on her desk, his hands clasped together, his face now inches from hers.

"I'm not done with you," he said.

"I am. Get out. Or I'll make you."

Harry smirked. "Unspeakable against Auror. The eternal rivals. Maybe we'll finally know who _is_ the best."

"Not quite," Hermione contradicted him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her breathing quickened. "An Auror against an Unspeakable, _inside of the Department of Mysteries_. I trust that you are an exceptional Auror, Harry. I doubt you are _that_ exceptional."

"That's what Voldemort said, too," Harry said.

The last word was barely out of his mouth when Hermione unexpectedly gave a sharp kick under her desk, hitting one of her drawers that sunk out of sight with an odd squeaking sound. Harry jumped backwards, his hand flying to his wand — but a fraction of a second later the desk exploded with the power of a little bomb, showering him with dust, splinters and fragments of parchment and glass. Protecting his face with one arm, he whipped the air with this wand, causing a shield to spring into being before him. In his haste, however, he had not calculated the strength of his own spell; and as it expanded on either side of him, dividing the office in two, he was forced to take a few staggering steps backwards.

The pieces of the desk rebounded against his transparent shield, and a surprisingly large cloud of dust started spreading over it, effectively hiding Hermione from his sight. It looked as if Hermione's desk had been entirely filled with this thick, sand-coloured powder. Somewhere behind the screen of dust, Harry caught the sound of feet sprinting over the wooden boards, heading for the left side of the room.

He blindly followed, running along the invisible barrier he had himself created. Soon the sandy fog had thinned enough that he was able to discern Hermione: she had reached the bookshelf lining the circular wall and was now moving her wand over it in a complicated pattern, muttering incantations Harry could not hear. He tried to run to her, only to be forced backward by his lasting shield charm.

"Goddamnit!" he yelled out in exasperation. Raising his wand, he started the long chant that would bring his own shield down — he was quivering with impatience, but it was either that or waiting for the Shielding Charm to fade. Unfortunately, this would not happen before several minutes.

Before his eyes, the bookshelf Hermione had been enchanting pivoted inwards, like a door on its hinges, letting Hermione out of the room. She dashed outside, and the bookshelf slowly revolved back into place.

Harry's shield vanished at last and he rushed forward, holding his breath as he ran through the dust still suspended in the air; he was merely three feet away from the exit when the hidden door closed completely with a neat, satisfied-sounding click, blocking his way. He didn't wait for the locking spells to snap shut again.

"_Confringo!"_

The Blasting Curse hit the bookshelf, his unbounded anger making it ten times as potent as it should have been — there was a deafening explosion, powerful enough to make the obliteration of Hermione's desk sound like a firecracker in comparison. An astonishing quantity of rubble, dust, bits of wood and fragments of burnt books were projected into the room in which Hermione had vanished, leaving an enormous, gaping hole in the wall of her office.

Harry sprang towards the opening he had created, his wand held firmly in front of him. Just as he stepped through the hole, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the wall had already started regenerating itself. Somewhere in the back of his mind, fear started to grow, cold and gummy. Hermione was right; the place he stood in was his most dangerous opponent, unpredictable and lethal to the uninitiated, a place where every law of physics and magic no longer made sense. It was foolish to think he could get out of there on his own, let alone beat an Unspeakable on her own ground.

Harry dismissed these disturbing thoughts as decisively as he had silenced his nostalgia for Hermione's friendship. There was no time, no room in him for fear anyway. He was all nerves and muscle. All of his undamaged senses were on alert, his brain entirely focused on the task at hand: find her, and bring her down.

His eyes quickly scanned the room he had landed in. As it turned out, it wasn't a room at all: he stood on a narrow platform at the edge of a low-ceilinged corridor. The height of the walls corresponded exactly to the width of the floor and ceiling, so that the dimensions of the corridor made a perfect square. The passage stretched on about fifty feet between the platform and a square wooden door, which fitted precisely in the frame drawn by the stony floor, walls and ceiling.

The square corridor was completely empty, save for Hermione. Oddly enough, she had not managed to get far away from the platform yet. She walked towards the door, her steps extremely slow and careful, as if she was treading on broken glass instead of bare stone.

This was the first peculiarity Harry noted. It took him a few seconds to notice a second one: there was no trace of the explosion he had just caused. The fragments of stone and wood he had blasted out of his way had simply vanished.

Foreboding constricted Harry's chest again. The Department of Mysteries. The worst battleground an Auror would ever see.

Mimicking Hermione's gestures, he cautiously stepped off the platform and onto the floor of the square corridor. The paving stones seemed to be buzzing with energy beneath his feet, making it only too obvious that he had to step on them with the greatest care, lest he should trigger off an enchantment of some kind — he had a feeling it wouldn't be a pleasant one.

They were following each other at a snail's pace, neither gaining ground on the other. Harry didn't dare use his wand. He wasn't even sure that Hermione had noticed he had already followed her out of her office, concentrated as she was on reaching the door safe and unharmed.

His wariness soon gave way to a growing frustration. He lengthened his stride, managing to gain speed without treading more forcefully on the paving stones. Hermione threw a nervous look over her shoulder and caught sight of him at last, and the startled exclamation she let out showed Harry that she had not, indeed, expected him to reach the corridor so soon.

"How did you get out?" she called at him. Her voice barely carried to Harry, as if she was speaking through a thick layer of cotton. The floor seemed to tremble a little under Harry's feet as the sound vibrations disturbed the energy flowing all around them.

"Blasted my way out," he called back. "And I wasn't exactly quiet. Strange that someone as intelligent and knowledgeable as an_Unspeakable_ wouldn't be able to guess from the noise I made." His voice was deeper than hers, and he felt the energy beneath his feet respond to it in a slightly different way.

Hermione must have sensed the disturbance as well, for she took care to snort as quietly as possible.

"If you intend to fight me in _my_ Department, you'd better forget everything you ever knew about conventional magic. You think something as trivial as a Blasting Curse, used in another room, would ever disturb this place in any way? I heard nothing at all." She gestured at the corridor, her tone both scornful and passionate. "And you _blasted my wall_," she added with a short, quiet laugh. "Subtlety was never your strong suit, was it?"

"If it was, I'd probably still be trapped in your office," Harry retorted through clenched teeth. His pulse sped up; Hermione was almost at the square door and he was still twenty feet behind. He was going to lose her, and be trapped inside of the magical corridor — and there was absolutely no guarantee that he would be able to get out of it on his own.

Harry threw all caution to the wind and broke into a run.

The moment his foot hit the stone floor, his full weight leaning on it, he felt the flow of energy shatter around him; the floor toppled under his feet. Hermione cried out as she lost her balance, her scream adding to the disturbance and accelerating the movement of the floor. Harry's ankle twisted and he was thrown against the wall.

The corridor was shifting. Harry's growing suspicions were confirmed: it was not made of stone, but of a kind of solid, raw magical power, moulded into a stony-looking and square-sectioned tunnel. The physical shock and screams, disrupting the flow of energy, were causing it to change. From a perfect square, the section of the corridor turned into a triangular shape, an equilateral triangle standing on its point.

Harry fell on his hands and knees against one of the sloping walls. The ceiling above his head was flat, but the floor did not exist anymore, reduced to a narrow gutter where the two bent walls met. In front of him, Hermione was trying desperately to scramble to her feet, her frantic moves causing the energy around them to ripple some more.

Harry cautiously stood up again and took several steps forwards, clumsily keeping a foot on either side of the central gutter. Hermione's face paled when she saw him gaining ground and, abandoning her own attempts at standing up, she brandished her wand in his direction. Harry caught her slight hesitation before she shouted the incantation.

"_Stupefy!"_

Red light shot from her wand, but before Harry could cast a Shielding Charm, before the Stunner even had the time to shape itself into a beam of light, it broke. The red light crackled as it scattered in every direction, briefly illuminating the stony walls before it vanished, swallowed by the flow of energy around them. And a second later, the corridor shifted shape again.

This time Harry managed to keep his balance as the triangle morphed into a flawless circle. He ran to Hermione, who had got to her feet at last and was hurrying towards the now round door. She had just unlocked it with a spell, she was swinging it open — she was almost out — the ground beneath his feet was shuddering again, the tunnel threatening to change once more…

And then Harry jumped onto the threshold, forced open the door Hermione was trying to close, and bolted out of the enchanted corridor behind her.

The ground vanished from under his feet.

Carried away by his momentum, Harry slid off a short ladder that hung into space from the doorframe, and with a thrill of terror he felt himself falling. He reflexively threw his left arm out, his hand bumping on several rungs without managing to grab them as he fell; then his fingers curled around the very last rung of the ladder and he gripped it with all of his strength.

For a second, he thought the weight of his falling body would cause his fingers to snap, or his arm to be torn off at the shoulder. Suppressing his urge to start kicking wildly into the empty space, he chanced a glance downwards, only to see opaque blackness stretching endlessly below him. Harry gritted his teeth on his growing panic and flung up his other arm, barely succeeding in wrapping his second hand around the rung without dropping his wand in the process.

"Impressive."

Harry pressed his lips into a tight line and started heaving himself up, ignoring the voice that had just sounded in the darkness.

"Welcome to the Department of Mysteries, Harry. I guess you're beaten."

Harry ground his teeth together again and pulled on his arms, the muscles of his abdomen clenching to the point where the pressure was making it hard for him to breathe. But he couldn't shut out Hermione's voice. It seemed to be coming from somewhere above him, as if she was floating on empty air.

"Frankly, if it's any consolation, no one stands a chance against the Department, especially when you're this deep into it. For you, managing to get this deep is quite the achievement," Hermione stated.

"I've felt more comfortable, to be perfectly honest," Harry replied in one expelled breath.

A pale, flickering light appeared somewhere above him, piercing the darkness. Harry looked up: Hermione was standing on some invisible surface, like a narrow and transparent platform running along the wall over the precipice Harry had almost fallen into. Her lit wand projected Harry's distorted shadow on the wall in front of him, which was bare save for the doorframe he had just gone through and the short ladder hanging from it. The light threw a pallid glow upon Hermione's face, putting into her pinched features sharp relief. This time she was staring down at him without a trace of hatred or scorn.

"The only people able to stand on this platform are myself and the Head of my Department," she explained quietly. "Without our permission, you fall through."

Harry glanced again, reflexively, over his shoulder; Hermione caught the gesture and understood his unasked question.

"I don't know how deep it is," she said. "No one knows."

"What_is_ it?"

Hermione rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh, in something like affectionate impatience. "I hope you're not really expecting me to answer that. For goodness's sake, Harry, I'm an _Unspeakable._ The only thing I can tell you about this room is that it's what I've been working on all these past months. See," she added, a bitter mockery tinting her voice, "you aren't even the main object of my investigation."

"I'm so touched," Harry panted. A loud clang echoed in the immense room as he chanced a grab at a higher rung and solidly coiled his fingers around it.

"You should be," Hermione coolly said. "You're so convinced I have betrayed our friendship, you haven't even considered the fact that I could have had ulterior motives, have you?"

"It doesn't take a genius to guess what your ulterior motives are," Harry ground out. He was not high enough yet to rest his knees on the lower rung; the pressure on the muscles in his arms and chest was becoming more and more difficult to deal with.

"Oh yes? Please elaborate."

"You're doing it for _Ron,_" Harry spat between two wheezing inhalations.

There was a pause, before Hermione answered in a low, weary voice.

"That's true. I want to heal him. And Luna, too."

Harry raised one knee and leant it against the last rung, relieving a little the strain on his thorax and abdomen, and took several gulps of air. His heart was thumping madly in his chest, and he felt slightly dizzy from his long and hard effort.

"But I wanted to protect you, too, Harry. At least as long as I'm in charge for your case I can control what the Department is doing to you. They — _we _— are capable of anything in order to reach our goals. People will get hurt in the process, and I don't want you to be one of them."

Harry raised his head, meeting with a steady gaze Hermione's intense one.

"You want to help me, that's it?" he asked. "Why don't you work_with_ me, then, instead of working _on_ me?"

"That's not going to happen," Hermione calmly answered, with the tone she would have used to tell him it was likely to rain the following day. "I told you. As long as I'm the only one who knows, I'm the only one I'll be able to blame in case of collateral damage."

"There's going to be a lot more collateral damage if you keep leaving me in the dark."

Hermione smiled, and for a fleeting second Harry caught a glimpse of her former self in her drawn, ashen face.

"I have a lot of faith in your intellectual abilities," she said softly. "But this is something that ought to be handled with much more _subtlety_ than you have."

Harry averted his eyes from hers as he secured his position, his knees leaning on the lower rung and both hands gripping the vertical members of the ladder. In the light of Hermione's wand, the transparent platform was shimmering slightly at its edges, kept in sight by Hermione's presence. He thought he could hear a slight, almost inaudible buzzing coming from the badge pinned to her chest.

"So what now?" he questioned.

"I'm getting you out of here," Hermione said, recovering her businesslike manner. "And out of the Department. I'll modify your memory so that you don't remember what happened tonight. Don't worry, I'll set it right again when all of this is over. You can go back to your mission without troubling yourself about anything else, and I'll take care of everything."

"Yeah…"

Harry slid his wand from his right hand to his left, and then ran his now free hand up the member of the ladder until he was gripping the topmost rung. He then cautiously uncoiled the fingers of his left hand from the other rung of the ladder, clenching them more tightly around his wand instead.

"You know what…" he said, looking thoughtfully up at Hermione. She was peering down at him, frowning slightly, and her white badge was gleaming in the wand light. Harry grinned at her.

"I think I prefer the hard way," he finished pleasantly. Bringing up his wand in a lashing move, he cast a simple _reducto_ spell at her.

He took her by surprise, and his aim was as good as ever; Hermione didn't even have the time to understand what he was trying to do. The spell shattered the badge pinned to the front of her robes, causing her to stagger backwards with a shocked scream which grew into a yell of horror as the platform vanished from under her feet. The spell had broken along with the badge.

Harry pointed his wand at Hermione, intending to stop her fall with a Levitation Spell; but before he had the time to utter half of the incantation, a dazzling green-gold glow flooded inside the dark room, and the silence was replaced by a deafening din of metallic sounds.

The room wasn't empty, after all. It was entirely filled with enormous brass gearwheels, some of them as big as Hermione's entire office. They had started turning and whirring as soon as the bright green light had chased away the shadows. Hermione landed painfully on a horizontal gearwheel, where she remained lying down, her arms over her head, pinned to the metallic surface by the rotating motion.

Harry took about two seconds to calculate his fall before he jumped from the ladder.

He hit another gearwheel feet first, but the shock made him topple forward and he rolled once before landing neatly on his feet again. He remained crouched, however, keeping as close to the gleaming brass floor as he could. The additional gravity created by the fast rotation was pressing on his shoulders like a thick slab of marble. He crawled on the wheel until he reached the centre of it, a fixed disc made of darker brass, and only then did he stand up and cast a glance around him.

It was a hellish vision. The wheels, massive and heavy, overlapped each other, filling the entire room save for a small space around the door leading into the shape-shifting corridor and the ladder hanging from it. Except for that small portion of bare wall, there was nothing but spinning brass, as far as the eye could see.

A blood-red jet of light tore through the green glow filling the room and hit the cogwheel Harry stood on with a clear chiming sound, missing him by at least three feet. Harry felt energy ripple around him at the disturbance; he raised his head, wand at the ready. He caught sight of Hermione; she had finally managed to crawl to the centre of her own wheel and was now lowering her wand at him again, another spell on her lips.

Harry was quicker. Jabbing his wand at her, he hurled a dazzling-white lightning bolt in her direction; Hermione drew a Z in the air with her wand and Harry felt his spell hammer against an incredibly powerful shield, more so than any he had ever seen or produced himself. His magic broke against it and scattered in the air, and Harry instinctively crouched low on the wheel as he expected the rebounding magic to throw him off-balance.

Hermione had not had the same reflex; Harry's broken spell, although it had no affect on her, caused her gearwheel to pitch and toss like a rowboat in a rough sea. She stumbled and slid to the side of the wheel, her eyes wide in fear as the movements of the wheel threatened to hurl her overboard. Harry straightened up and cast another spell at her, a spinning, purple light designed to tie her hands behind her back as though with manacles. Hermione, who had been busy clawing at the brass wheel in a desperate effort to secure her position, raised her wand just in time.

In her haste, she had only managed to bring up a feeble shield; Harry's purple spell easily overcame it, merely crackling slightly as it pushed through the weak resistance. The slight commotion was the last straw for the precariously balanced gearwheel. It abruptly toppled over, saving Hermione from Harry's spell, but also sending her flying into the air and out of Harry's view.

Harry bit back a curse. He hated not having her within his sight. Knowing Hermione, it would not be long before she managed to land on another wheel, creep closer to him and get a good shot at him while he was looking the other way. Hell, that is what _he_ would do, if he were in her position. Coming to a decision, he shut his eyes and lowered himself to the wheel again, crawling away from his fixed spot at the centre of the gearwheel and onto the rotating surface.

He soon found himself on the edge of the wheel. The speed of the spin was making his stomach churn and his vision swim. Through half-shut eyelids, he stared at a gigantic vertical gearwheel, its cogs overlapping those of the wheel Harry crouched on. It was approaching fast.

It thundered past Harry, following the brim of the horizontal wheel; it was almost gone when Harry sprang, clasping a cog in his hands and hauling himself up.

The rotation of the vertical gearwheel shot Harry up at breakneck speed. He had little more than two seconds of notice before the wheel threatened to squash him against another brass disc it overlapped.

"_Linea!"_he shouted, thrusting his wand arm outwards. A thin rope, looking as frail as a linen thread, shot from the tip of his wand and went to curl around the teeth of a smaller gearwheel spinning at a few feet from where he was. Holding the end of the thread in his left hand, Harry jumped off the vertical wheel moments before his legs were crushed between the interwoven cogs.

The linen thread he hung from was twitching and swinging as the smaller wheel spun; Harry didn't halt, didn't pause to think, didn't gave a thought to the precariousness of his position. It wasn't long before he had climbed up the thin thread and onto another gearwheel.

Hermione still showed no signs of life. Harry kept jumping from wheel to wheel, scanning the room, ready to cast a spell should the need arise. After the first few terrifying minutes, moving through the brass gearwheels had become easy, almost natural. It was an exhilarating sensation, it was as if Harry's body was in complete harmony with the magic flowing around him, with the powerful moves of the great wheels. The low rumbling and ticking of the wheels reverberated through his whole body, right into the marrow of his bones, perfectly in harmony with the blood roaring into his ears. The dread of the treacherous ways of the Department of Mysteries had left him.

But Hermione still was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, a shimmer of light, too pale to come from the rich green glow reflecting on the brass flashed at the very periphery of Harry's vision. He spun around, bending one knee to keep his balance on the tilted gearwheel he was standing on.

She stood with her back to him, at a significant distance, and held her left hand up; it was curled around something that shone with a bright, white light. The gearwheel under her feet had stopped turning, as well as the wheels immediately next to it; and the green light filling the room seemed to be fleeing before the harsh, cold light spilling from her hand, leaving her in a relative darkness.

It wasn't before Harry saw the invisible platform he had destroyed earlier shimmer back into life that he understood what was happening. Hermione had somehow collected all the pieces of her broken badge, and she was now activating the spells again. She was _fleeing._

A shiver ran up Harry's spine. He could feel it now: the wild, green-gold energy that kept all the gearwheels in motion was being bound by something else — something cold and harsh, neat and precise and merciless. The room was darkening. The wheels were slowing down. The platform running along the wall was now fully formed, and glowed with the same white light as the badge in Hermione's hand.

Harry lowered himself to the gleaming floor again and moved, swift and silent, covering the distance stretching between him and Hermione before she could escape and lock him inside the room. The slowed motions of the wheels made his approaching a lot quicker, but he still feared he would be too late, and ached with the need to use his wand again to stop her. But she was his one ticket out of the Department; following her was a better option than cursing her.

The ladder Harry had clung to earlier lazily lengthened, reaching out to Hermione; she took a step forward and grabbed it. Harry quietly got down from a gearwheel onto another, the closest to the ladder, completely still now. Hermione climbed up a couple of rungs, before abruptly turning around to peer at the gearwheels behind her.

Harry dropped to the floor again, dragging himself in the shadow of an immobile wheel that stood vertically, at the brim of his gearwheel. Through the teeth of the wheel, he could see Hermione's eyes sweeping the room in a circular glance, her body twisted at the waist as she gripped the ladder with one hand and held her wand in the other. He was struck to see how her features were drawn in total exhaustion.

Hermione apparently did not notice anything. Turning her back on him again, she started ascending the ladder, her moves slow and weary. At the back of the room, the last feebly whirring wheels gave an ultimate creaking sound before they too fell quiet.

Leaning back against the wheel, Harry turned his wand upon himself and performed the best Disillusionment Charm he could muster. Deprived as he was of his Invisibility Cloak, it was his best option.

Sneaking out of his hiding place, he silently made his way to the bottom of the ladder. Hermione had almost reached the door, and nothing in her stance hinted that she worried about him following her at all. She just tiredly grabbed one rung after the other, heaving herself up with grunts of effort. Harry started climbing after her, taking great care not to shake the ladder or lean too heavily on it.

Hermione reached the door, muttered an incantation that opened it without a sound, and walked out.

The door remained ajar.

Harry literally flew up the last few rungs of the ladder, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before the door was locked; he reached it in turn and pushed it open very slightly, slipping sideways through the gap, silent and swift as a snake.

He was not fully out of the Gearwheel Room, his right side, from shoulder to hip, was still trapped between the almost closed door and the wall — when the door slammed shut on his right arm with astonishing violence. Harry heard the dry, sharp snap of a bone breaking before the heavy wooden door rebounded off his arm. With a cry of shock he jerked himself completely out of the doorway. A Stunner bounced off the wall at the exact spot where his head had been a second before.

"It's really quite irritating," Hermione's voice panted, "that you keep underestimating me. Sort of vexing."

Harry looked up from his crouching position on the floor. A knot tightened in his chest as he recognised the room he was in. He was in a stone pit, circled with tall stone steps rising in all directions, at the centre of which stood the crumbling archway Sirius had fallen through years before. A couple of steps below him, her wand raised level with his head, was Hermione.

Her expression and voice, calm, almost bored, clashed with her heavy breathing and the sweat glistening on her pale forehead. She was running out of strength. Harry slowly straightened up, his wand still clutched in the fingers of his right hand. He now towered over her, and although she clenched her jaw in a defiant expression, he saw her knuckles whitening as her grip on her wand tightened.

"You know what?" Harry said, eyeing her thoughtfully. "It has lasted way too long already. How about stopping the chitchat and getting this over with?"

"Oh, I'm all for it," Hermione said in the same offhanded voice. "It shouldn't take too long actually; your wand arm looks in a pretty bad shape from where I'm standing."

Her spell rocketed at him before she had even finished talking. Harry didn't pause to think. His wand flashed in the air, his counter spell hitting Hermione's jet of light in midair in an explosion of sparks. He flicked his wand upward then jabbed it in Hermione's direction, two incantations jumping immediately to his mind, as mechanic and reflexive as the wand-moves themselves. Hermione's wand clattered to the floor, ripped from her hand by a Disarming Spell, and a Stunner sent her flying down a few steps. She bounced as she fell a first time on the hard stone, the sound surprisingly loud, and then rolled limply from step to step down to the bottom of the pit.

Harry slowly lowered his left arm again. The whole thing couldn't have lasted more than a couple of seconds. It left him a little dazzled, and he found himself unable to believe he had won so easily; and when he finally started walking down the steps to where Hermione lay unconscious, his walk was cautious, hesitant, the still-lasting rush of adrenaline not allowing him to relax a single second.

Harry reached the bottom of the pit and knelt beside Hermione. She didn't stir at all. Without counting the Stunner, her fall alone would have been enough to knock her out; and after summoning her wand and tucking it inside his pocket, Harry felt safe enough to tend to his broken arm. It was likely he would need his two hands in the very near future.

Harry's healing skills weren't quite as good as to mend bones in a few seconds, but he was able to effortlessly set the fracture and stabilise it with a splint; and since he didn't have to worry about the pain; that was good enough for now. Satisfied, Harry cautiously turned Hermione over, his wand still warily pointed at her face.

"_Ennervate."_

Hermione stirred and her eyes fluttered open. She blinked in confusion when her hazy gaze fell on the tip of Harry's wand, which hovered dangerously close to her nose, then very slowly turned her head to stare at him.

"Hey there," Harry said without smiling.

Hermione's eyes travelled to his left hand, which held his wand in a firm grip, and comprehension dawned on her face.

"Of course," she sighed resignedly. "How could I be so _stupid_—you can use both of your hands ambidextrously."

"Yeah. It's annoying, how you keep underestimating me," Harry said. "Keep still," he snapped as she seemed to want to sit up.

Hermione fell back, looking a little queasy — which wasn't surprising, considering she had just fallen down a dozen hard stone steps.

"So what now?" she asked, tiredly closing her eyes.

"I don't need you anymore," Harry said. "I know how to get out of the Department from here. But I do have a few questions for you."

"Whatever, Harry. You're the one behind the wand."

Harry absently nodded in agreement as he gathered his thoughts, trying to formulate the hundreds of questions swirling about in his mind.

"What's inside the Gearwheel Room?" he asked at last.

Hermione's eyes opened again and she slightly tilted her head to him, her expression unreadable.

"Why would you ask this, of all things?" she said in a neutral tone.

"I ask because you're the only one allowed to stand in it, along with your Head of Department. And you're in charge of the case. _My_ case. No matter what you said back there, you've only worked in that room because it had something to do with me."

Hermione smiled faintly. "When I think they're all convinced you're dumb..."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry impatiently said, digging the tip of his wand in Hermione's cheek. "What _is_ in that room, Hermione?"

"Why should I tell you?" Hermione shot at him. "What if I _don't_ tell you? What are you going to do, torture me?"

"You don't get it, do you?" Harry lashed out, speaking over her. "You're off the case, Hermione. It's _over_ for you. I'm going to get out of here and resume my investigation, and don't think I'll let you spy on me as you've done until now. If I have to, I'll make sure you're transferred to another position—don't you believe for one second that I don't have the connections for that. I don't _have_ to make you tell me. You want Ron and Luna to be all right? The only way you'll achieve that is by telling me what you know; because _you_ are not going to work on this case. Ever again."

Hermione averted her gaze, and her skin greyed again with exhaustion, all defiance having vanished from her face.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I—I don't even know how it is connected to you. My Head of Department, Alphonse Martin—you've met him…"

"Yes, we did meet, that was the conversation you eavesdropped on," Harry said shortly.

"Well, rumour says he was the one to bring the gearwheels here. To tame whatever is inside the room, I think. He assigned me to work on it, but so far, all I was able to do was invent a spell to freeze all that energy running around, and create the platform you saw me standing on. There would be more to tell you, but it's highly advanced magical theory. I doubt you would understand a word."

"That'll have to do for now," Harry said. "Why are all those Frenchmen running about, anyway? Don't they have their own Ministry in France?"

Hermione's mouth twisted in distaste. "Martin's crew. He basically forced them down our throats. Most of the people I work with are French; they seem to be familiar with the case, maybe they've met something similar in France..."

"...which would explain why Scrimgeour named Martin as Head of the Department," Harry went on, more to himself than to Hermione. "He's interested in the case, as well."

"Yes, he's interested in it, whatever it is," Hermione agreed. "Whatever _they_ are."

Silence stretched between them for a few seconds.

"Harry," Hermione said, sounding tense again. "Some people here are convinced you're one of _them_."

"One of whom?"

"You know who I mean. The non-wizards. Those ancient beings you and I have been trying to track down for months. They believe that you're one, that it explains your... particularities."

"_Do_ you?" Harry asked, rather curiously.

He was shocked to see that Hermione, for the first time, looked more hurt than angry.

"Of course not," she vehemently said. "I know you. You were my best friend once. How many times have you proven to the entire world that you were a wizard, and one of the best, too? Regardless of your opinion of me now, do you really think I'd believe for one second that you have anything in common with those _monsters?_"

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "It's something else," she firmly said, but it sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. "Maybe you were infected, somehow, or influenced by them. Maybe you just have an abnormally high affinity to them. But it's something else, I know it."

Harry stared at her for several long moments, contradictory feelings and thoughts battling in his mind at this strange confession; coming to a decision, he abruptly changed the subject.

"And the shape-shifting tunnel?"

"Pure magic," Hermione answered, grimacing as she shifted uncomfortably on the hard stone floor. "Pure wizarding power shaped into a corridor. It's used as a source of power to counterbalance the wild energy of what you call the Gearwheel Room. A kind of security airlock, if you will. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Harry thought of the hard-edged, flawless geometry of the magical tunnel. "In a way," he admitted. "It's part of the case?"

"I told you. I use it as an airlock, to protect my office from the energy leaking from the room."

"And the room we're in? It's not protected by anything?" Harry asked, gesturing toward the door they had come through.

"I activated a code that led us straight here," Hermione explained. "It's dangerous, but I had no choice. I couldn't fight in the magical tunnel..."

"...since you had exhausted yourself summoning all the pieces of your badge, putting them back together and reactivating the spells on it," Harry finished, nodding to the roughly repaired badge still pinned to her chest. "Which is also why you threw all your reminding strengths into a few spells afterwards, trusting I couldn't use my wand arm anymore, and got beaten by a fourth-year spell."

"Must you rub it in," she said, a shadow of her old smile playing on her lips as she rolled her eyes in annoyance, in an expression Harry was very familiar with.

Harry blinked and looked away from her face. He couldn't afford letting old memories distract him from his resolve. There was no time for that.

Now he thought of it, if he didn't move soon, someone was bound to find them. A late-worker might stumble into the room, which would make things quite uncomfortable for Harry — he was, after all, an Auror, without authorisation to be in the Department of Mysteries, and keeping an Unspeakable at wand point.

"I don't have much time to waste. I'll be on my way shortly," he said, his gaze still attached to the stones paving the floor of the Archway Room. He couldn't quite keep the hesitation out of his voice as he went on, "Before that, though, there's...one last thing I need to do."

He lifted the tip of his wand slightly and leant it against Hermione's forehead, straining to stop the slight trembling of his hand. It was easy enough to curse Hermione when she was fighting back, but _this_ was harder than he thought it would be. Cursing his own weakness, Harry forced himself to look at her face again. She stared at him, her eyes wide, with a mixture of apprehension and incredulity.

"What are you going to do?" she whispered, and her voice shook on the words.

Harry nervously licked his lips. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll set it right again when all of this is over."

Hermione's face blanched as she realised what he was about to do. "Oh, no," she whimpered. "Oh, God, no, anything but this..."

"You can go back to your mission," Harry went on, his voice barely above a murmur, his knuckles turning white as his fingers curled more tightly around his wand, "without troubling yourself about anything else. I'll take care of everything."

Hermione opened her mouth one more time, wild fear twisting her features, but she didn't have the time to say a word.

"_Obliviate,"_ Harry intoned.

It shouldn't have to be this hard. She had betrayed him, worked with others behind his back. She had considered him to be too reckless, too stupid for her to bother sharing information with him. It was unfair that Harry should feel guilty about cursing her, even though she had been lying helplessly at his feet, even though he knew that the very idea of having her mind tampered with terrified her more than anything else.

_And she was trying to protect me. She thought that leaving me in the dark would keep me safe from her own colleagues. Her intentions weren't bad._

Yeah, well. One could have paved a new road to Hell with Hermione's good intentions. It didn't change the fact that she deserved what Harry had done to her. He had faced her, fought her, and had won fair and square. And if he wanted to continue investigating, he had no choice but erase her memories of the evening. That was all there was to it.

All there was to it.

Harry pushed open the gate leading into Daphne Greengrass's garden. His trip back from the Department of Mysteries had been eventless, the Ministry being almost completely deserted at this hour of the night. It had left Harry plenty of time to think about the recent occurrences. But somehow, every time he tried to focus on the Gearwheel Room or Martin's strange obsession with the Third Kind, he always ended up picturing in his mind Hermione's face; pale, tired, hard and pained, like a living reproach. He knew he wasn't thinking rationally, that he wasn't to blame for finding himself estranged from everything he had once held dear. Yet the guilt and pain were there, and maybe all the stronger since they were illogical.

Harry unlocked Daphne's door with an irritated wave of his wand. The memories, the _nostalgia;_ useless things that weighed him down. As if mourning his lost happiness was going to solve anything. He had a job, and he needed to get it done, end of story. There was no _time_ for this kind of pointless regret.

He silently made his way through the corridor and into his minuscule room; grabbing his bag from under his bed, he rummaged inside for a few seconds before pulling out the small leather pouch that contained his healing potions. He picked from it a vial filled to the brim with a dark purple liquid and, uncorking it, drank it all in one gulp. Discarding the vial, he untied the splint from his upper arm, testing the effects of the potion with cautious fingers. The bone had apparently mended perfectly; he would just have to be careful for the next six hours or so.

Harry put his hands on his desk and leant over it with a tired sigh. Now that his arm had been taken care of, he needed to think back of all that had happened and draw the conclusions. He needed to plan his next moves. He needed to make decisions.

He couldn't.

He simply couldn't. After so much time spent fighting back his emotions, stifling his memories and focusing on his duty, after so many sleepless days of struggling alone against invisible enemies and mistrusting everyone, he suddenly found himself unable to take it anymore. He was sick of it, he was exhausted, and he needed to let it go—just for a short while—just a little break from it all…

He did not hear the door of his room opening. He kept his head bowed, squeezed his eyes shut, and clenched his teeth on the bitter tide of tiredness and revolt rising in his throat like bile.

When two slender arms wrapped themselves around his waist, he sucked in a surprised breath before releasing it in a slow, barely audible sigh of relief.

As if this was precisely what he had been waiting for.

Harry didn't turn around or open his eyes. He remained as he was, leaning over his desk with his head bent; he could dimly feel Daphne's body, pressed full against his back, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades. His mind had gone mercifully blank. Thinking was pointless. He would think tomorrow.

Daphne's hands snuck under his dirty, torn, scorched shirt, softly running over the skin of his stomach, leaving behind a trail of fire as Harry's numb senses abruptly awakened. Harry shuddered; her hands were soothing and cool on his skin, and contrasted with the warmth of her entire body that he could now feel on his back, through the material of his shirt. A primal need to _have_ her started to build up inside of him, so violent that it left him breathless.

Daphne's hands grew bolder, exploring and caressing him, and the sensation was intoxicating. He straightened up at last and felt her take a step back; the loss of the contact was unbearable. He turned around to face her, reaching out and grabbing her wrists to pull her close.

She was wearing her old dressing gown again, and from the way it clung to her curves, he was willing to bet she had nothing underneath. Her hair fell around her face, still wet from the shower, her eyes huge and avid as she stared up at him, her breathing quick. Her features glowered with an almost animalistic hunger, matching Harry's growing need.

Not a word was spoken between them. Never did Harry pause to wonder at her motivations for coming down there, or at the consequences of his actions. He just leant forward and crushed his lips to hers, the kiss greedy, demanding, almost brutal, and she kissed him back just as aggressively. Her hands were all over him again, and his had found their way under the material of her dressing gown, feeling the soft, warm, supple flesh—_God_ had he missed this...

The investigation would have to wait.

Harry took his break.

The room was completely dark; the nightly silence barely disturbed by Daphne's slow, deep breathing. Harry's bed was so narrow that she slept sprawled on top of him, and for the first time in three years Harry was mildly bothered by the heat. He held her distractedly, keeping one arm coiled around her body and playing with her hair with his other hand. His body ached in multiple places from when he had got bruised and scraped in the Department of Mysteries, but his mind was clear and calm again, which was not surprising given how eagerly he had just worked on releasing his tension.

He had replayed his trip to the Department of Mysteries in his head multiple times, but still didn't know what to make of the information about Alphonse Martin and his gearwheels. As for Hermione, she didn't seem to know any more than he did about the case, of course he'd had little time to question her, so he couldn't be sure. He would have to ask Robards to take care of the mess he had left behind him. Doubtless there were surveillance devices at the ninth floor, and maybe a couple of them had recorded some of his actions. The last thing he needed was being the object of an investigation for breaking into the Department and duelling a high-ranked Unspeakable.

Harry frowned at the ceiling. The outcome of the evening was, on the whole, favourable to his mission; the spy had been caught, the evidence destroyed, and Hermione neutralised. Yet he had the nagging feeling that there was a small detail he had overlooked...

The lazy moves of Harry's fingers in Daphne's hair suddenly stopped. He had destroyed all the small recordings the spy had brought with him at the Ministry—all but one. One that had fallen into the Floo fire when Dramont had died. A small twig-like object the size of a chess pawn.

Hermione had been holding it. She had already listened to it. She would probably find it again in the wreck of her desk, and have access to the information on it. What did it say again? Dramont had opened it in front of Harry...

"…_me falling asleep wasn't exactly planned…"_

That was the one.

Harry's stomach twisted painfully; Hermione knew he usually couldn't sleep. She would understand how significant the recording was. She would know that something in Daphne's house had been able to cure Harry's insomnia, if only for a short while. She would want to learn more, to study the phenomenon closely.

Daphne probably wasn't safe if she stayed here. It would be the first place the Unspeakables would look into.

Harry quickly made up his mind. Removing his hand from Daphne's hair, he seized her shoulder and shook her slightly.

"Daphne," he said, raising his voice a little. "Wake up."

She stirred a little, snuggling deeper into his chest with a soft sigh. It was only when he called her name a second time that she muttered an answer that, although inaudible, was obviously a not too polite invitation for Harry to be quiet and let her sleep.

"Come on, Greengrass, we don't have time for this!" Harry impatiently hissed, shaking her a little roughly.

This time she raised her head and blinked owlishly at him.

"What the hell..." she mumbled.

"We have to get out of here. Get up."

Without further ado, Harry rose, causing her to tumble from the bed to the floor with a startled squeak. The second he stopped touching her, the mild pain and discomfort he had been experiencing from his multiple bruises vanished, and with it the sensation of sultry heat hanging in the air of his bedroom. He ignored the twinge of regret and longing for Daphne's contact and went searching for clean clothes.

Meanwhile, Daphne struggled on the floor to disentangle herself from the sheets of his bed, which had coiled around her body as she fell. Harry paid her little attention, only vaguely aware of the muttered string of curses issuing from her mouth as he checked the contents of his small bag. His feeling of urgency was growing. The longer they waited, the more they gave the Unspeakables time to pick up their track and come after them.

"What the hell, Potter?" Daphne snarled, sounding widely awake this time.

"I think we're both in danger if we stay here," Harry said. "Go get some clothes. Hurry, we're leaving."

"_Leaving?_ Wait, what—"

"I don't have time to explain," Harry snapped, cutting across her. "I'll tell you everything later. Right now we need to get the hell out of here."

"But—to go _where?_ The Ministry?"

Harry shook his head. "They'll find us. I'll have to take you to a place they won't dare to follow us."

Daphne straightened up, having finally found her dressing gown in the mess of sheets and dirty clothes covering the floor. She threw it on her bare shoulders and closed it over her chest with both hands, her stance somewhat defensive. "And, where would that be?" she slowly asked.

Harry tilted his head as he stared pensively at her.

"Do you like forests?"

* * *

A/N: Thanks to Lord Ravenclaw for the beta work. 


	16. Song of the Trees

**Chapter**** Fifteen: The Song of the Trees**

Harry expelled a breath as the pressure on his lungs lifted, the blackness pressing into his eyes vanishing to be replaced by the clear, starry night of Hogsmeade Valley. Beside him, Daphne Greengrass tripped and almost lost her balance; she would have fallen to the ground if Harry had not distractedly wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her.

"Thanks—"

"Shhh," Harry interrupted, holding up his hand. His eyes scanned their surroundings, in search of any sign that might indicate they were being watched. But nothing moved among the low, pointed-roofed shapes of the Hogsmeade houses. A nearby streetlamp threw at their feet a pool of orange light, revealing a good portion of completely empty street. They were alone.

"Come on," Harry breathed to Daphne. "Follow me."

He set off along the street and towards the gates of Hogwarts, Daphne trotting behind him. After a few seconds she took his hand, causing him to shiver in awareness as a thousand different sensations assailed his numb senses — and although he cursed himself for that weakness, he did not pull his hand out of hers.

"That's not enjoyable at all," Daphne whispered as they left the cobbled street and started walking on a road of barely dried mud. "Apparition. It's like being forced into a giant rubber tube."

"It's supposed to be convenient. Not enjoyable," Harry pointed out, his mind elsewhere.

"_Still._ Even the Muggles are more comfortable when they're travelling. I'm almost glad I never passed my Apparition test."

"You didn't?"

"No, I kept causing some kind of turmoil in the air… A bit like whirlwinds. The examiner labelled me as hopeless after the third try."

Harry emitted a non-committal noise, hoping to put an end to the conversation; he was thankful when Daphne took the hint and fell silent.

Unfortunately, it did not last long.

"Look, do you _have_ to walk that fast?"

"We don't have time to waste," Harry replied through gritted teeth. "Keep up."

"If I had known you were taking me for a marathon, I certainly wouldn't have agreed to follow you—"

"Stop talking as if I had given you a choice, Greengrass," Harry snapped, throwing a glare at her over his shoulder. "You never had to _agree_ to follow. I'm taking you with me whether you like it or not."

Daphne hissed like an angry cat, and Harry felt a sudden tug on his arm as she came to an abrupt halt. He impatiently turned to look at her. She had dug her heels into the soft ground, her face set in a stubborn expression, and was struggling to tear her fingers from his strong grip with all the dignity she could muster. Harry raised his eyebrows at her.

"Greengrass," he said, slow and purposeful. "We. Don't. Have. Time. For this."

He forcefully pulled on the hand he still gripped and resumed his walk, dragging a cursing Daphne behind him.

"You're acting really superior for a guy who was begging for sex two hours ago!" she furiously shouted at him. Harry experienced small stabs of surprisingly sharp pain where her nails dug into his flesh, as she clawed at his wrist in an attempt to make him let go; but his only reaction was to tug on her arm with renewed strength — which caused her to let out a strangled oath as she almost fell flat on her face in the muddy path. They were almost there. The gates stood at barely a dozen yards ahead of them, flanked by two high columns on top of which stone winged boars gleamed in the moonlight.

"Look who's talking!" Harry replied, without slowing down or turning to look at her. "I don't know which of us was the most desperate, but _I_ certainly did not sneak into _your_ bedroom wearing only a dressing gown."

"Funny, I never heard you complaining," Daphne growled.

"Didn't want to embarrass you or anything..."

"Oh right, so you were doing me a _favour_, huh? That was what the _whimpering_ meant?"

Harry stopped dead in his tracks and whirled about, facing Daphne — she was flushed with rage and effort, but sported a contemptuous expression that did nothing to ease his growing irritation.

"Now look here, Greengrass," he said through gritted teeth. "I did _not_ whimper."

She let out a burst of derisive laughter, which ended in a cry of pain as Harry squeezed her hand with all his might.

"Ow! You… You pathetic _wimp!_ You moan like an underfed puppy when I'm screwing you, then you crush my hand afterwards to prove to yourself you still have balls? That's—"

A light cough sounded from behind Harry, interrupting Daphne's outburst and stopping the angry retort on the tip of Harry's tongue.

"Uh… Excuse me, are you going inside, or can I close the gates?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder, peering in the voice's direction, and found himself staring at a quite startled-looking Romilda Vane. The young waitress was wrapped in a too large but extremely warm-looking coat — Harry, who was starting to suffer from the biting cold due to his prolonged contact with Daphne, couldn't help feeling a twinge of envy — and she held the iron gates open, looking as if she had just slipped out of the Hogwarts grounds.

"Oh, hi, Harry. That's nice to see you again!" she said with a light smile; but the cheer in her voice sounded forced, and Harry wondered how much she had heard of their conversation. Probably a lot, he mused. Daphne hadn't been exactly quiet.

"And, er —" Romilda added uncertainly, her gaze flicking to Daphne. "I don't know you…?"

"Hey, Romilda," Harry quickly said; his voice came out as oddly high-pitched, and he resisted the urge to clear his throat. "Well, this is Daphne Greengrass… Daphne, Romilda Vane."

"Nice to meet you," Romilda said, though there was a chill in her tone that suggested she had no pleasure whatsoever in meeting Daphne. The former Slytherin didn't even answer, settling for looking Romilda up and down instead, a slightly disdainful smirk playing on her lips.

"Oh, I didn't know you had a fangirl, Harry," she drawled. Harry twitched at hearing her say his first name; not only did she seldom use it, but she had pronounced it in a way that had been quite... intimate. So much so, in fact, that it was a little indecent. A little as if she had slid her hands under her shirt and started nibbling on his earlobe in public.

"I'm just a friend," Romilda said at once. Her face had grown more sombre still, and Harry thought he saw her eyes dart to their linked hands before she looked up into his face again. "I, on the other hand, had no idea he had a girlfriend," she went on with the same false cheer in her voice.

"I don't, Daphne's just a—" Harry started, only to fall silent again.

What was Daphne to him exactly?

"She's…"

Romilda's eyebrows shot upwards as she looked at him enquiringly, and Harry could almost feel Daphne's mocking stare on the side of his head. The blonde girl shifted so that her body was leaning into his, and her free hand started to play idly with the hem of his shirt.

"... A witness," Harry finished brusquely. He stepped sideways, putting some distance between Daphne and him, his gaze still locked to Romilda's. The girl's honey-coloured eyes were politely incredulous. "I'm still investigating that werewolf case," Harry went on. "Greengrass might have seen something that could be important, and I'm taking her to Hogwarts. That's all I can tell you for the moment."

Daphne snorted slightly at Harry's answer, but Romilda paid her no attention at all.

"I... see," she said slowly, scepticism audible in her every intonation. "Well then I'll hold the gates open for you... Then I'll go back home, I'm freezing."

"Great, thanks," Harry said. "I have a password to let me in, but this'll be quicker, I guess. What were you doing in Hogwarts anyway? Out of pure curiosity?"

Romilda half-shrugged. "McGonagall needed me for something," she answered evasively. "Well, better hurry up... Get in, then, and good luck with the investigation."

She held the gates open for them, and Harry hurried forward with a word of thanks. In passing, driven by a sudden impulse, he bent over and hastily planted a kiss on her cheek. The skin of her face was cold but smooth, and her hair had the rich scent of freshly baked bread.

"Thanks again," he called as he pulled Daphne inside the grounds behind him.

Romilda's suddenly pink face lit up with a smile; she wordlessly raised a gloved hand to wave goodbye to him, then closed the gates behind her and walked away, towards the safety and warmth of Hogsmeade.

"That is so _cute!_" Daphne cooed as soon as the gates had closed with a dull clanking sound. "Who knows, next time you _might_ succeed in controlling your voice and asking her out. How about taking her to the roundabout? Surely she's the kind who loves—"

"_Silencio."_

Their journey ended in a blissful silence. After several minutes of vain struggle against Harry's grip, her mouth opening and closing again in soundless indignation, Daphne resigned herself to the Silencing Charm and let herself be dragged along the road that winded its way around the lake, from the heavy iron gates to the castle perched on a cliff. The ground around them was bared and beaten down by the last few days' relentless rain and wind, and the water trapped in the deep ruts was covered with a thin layer of ice — as were the soaked, muddy banks of the lake. The air was immobile, the cold piercing. In the dead glow of the decreasing moon, the landscape looked as sterile, as desolate as a dead man's skull.

Uncontrollable shivers ran up and down Harry's back, and the cold was stinging his skin like thousands of white-hot needles. He had scarcely felt so uncomfortable in years, but at the same time he experienced an odd pleasure in the sharp bite of the winter air. He had _forgotten_ what the cold felt like. His mouth and throat were dried by the chilly air rushing into his lungs, blood prickled his fingers as he mechanically rubbed them against his thigh in order to restore his circulation, his lips felt chapped and split when he ran his tongue over them — he was acutely aware of every part of his body. It was nothing like the explosion of sensations he had had when sleeping with Daphne: then, the abrupt awakening of his long lost senses had completely overwhelmed him, leaving him no time to savour the feeling. He had just _lived_ it, without thinking or stopping to marvel.

Now, he took the time to savour… And the sensation was _intoxicating._

Daphne tugged on Harry's hand, dragging him out of his reverie. Looking back, he suddenly realised she probably did not share his enthusiasm for the effects of the cold on the human body: she, too, was trembling, her face grimacing with discomfort and her free arm wrapped around her waist in a pitiful attempt to keep herself warm. He could hear her teeth chattering.

She looked so piteous that Harry, who vividly remembered the jabs that had only ended with his use of the Silencing Charm, felt his face split into a smirk. She shot back at him a glare that eloquently spoke of his near, painful death, and with a little laugh he raised his wand and performed a basic Heating Charm over them both.

Wonderfully warm air billowed from the tip of his wand and all around them, enveloping them like a thick woolly blanket. Harry smiled in pure happiness, relishing in the simple, primal pleasure of being warm and comfortable. To think he had survived three years deprived of those elementary satisfactions...

To think he would lose them again, if he only did so much as let go of Daphne's hand...

This thought considerably sobered Harry. He had to get to the Forest if he wanted to escape the Ministry — soon they would find out where he had gone to, one way or another, and then they would search Hogsmeade and Hogwarts alike. They had to hurry. There was no time for daydreaming.

Daphne had been staring at him with an odd expression on her face; he felt his cheeks heat up slightly under her gaze and averted his eyes, pulling on her hand again as he resumed their walk. They were almost at the castle.

They left the main road and turned into a patch of short grass, keeping the lake on their left. Ahead of them stretched the shadows of the forest; the naked trees of the edge seemed to be carved out of silver, and somehow, the night looked blacker under their branches. Daphne's steps grew hesitant; and for the first time, anguish constricted Harry's chest.

Ignoring his instincts, which were screaming for him to turn tail and run to the safety of the castle, Harry turned to Daphne and removed the Silencing Charm. She hardly paid him any attention; her eyes were a little wide and stared far behind him, where the Forbidden Forest waited in expectant silence.

"Come on," he whispered, sounding more confident than he felt. "I've been there countless times. There's no danger."

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Trust me," Harry grimly said. "Compared to what would happen if the Ministry found us, the Forest's pretty safe."

"The Ministry?" she slowly repeated.

Harry nodded.

"Yes. They'll be after me. After you too, I'm afraid. They found out a couple of things that are disturbing them. Come on, follow me…"

But once again, Daphne resisted, her heels dug into the grass-covered ground.

"How can I be sure you're telling me the truth?" she asked. "You're Ministry yourself, aren't you?"

"My Department isn't on the case, officially. But the Aurors might jump in after what happened tonight—"

"Which is?"

A sudden, unpleasantly vivid image of Hermione's form sprawled on the stone floor of the Archway Room, staring glassy-eyed at the distant ceiling, leapt to the front of Harry's mind. He shook his head slightly, dismissing the thought with an effort of will.

"Long story short, I destroyed some evidence that could be used against both of us," he answered; his throat was dry and his voice came out as oddly hoarse. He coughed loudly.

"What kind of evidence?"

Harry bit back an exclamation of impatience; his nerves were raw, and he kept glancing towards the remote gates of the grounds, expecting at every second to see the Ministry's enforcements burst in and start chasing them.

"Look, Greengrass," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "I don't have the time to explain the whole case to you, so I'll just give you a general idea of what's going on, all right? You kept saying you felt different from other wizards, remember? And that you felt we had something in common. I have a pretty good idea of what that something is, and so has the Ministry. And they don't like it. Is that enough of a reason for you?"

Daphne's eyes widened slightly. "You're serious?" she breathed. "You know what's wrong with me?"

"I had a couple of guesses," Harry replied, almost stumbling on his words in his haste to put an end to the conversation. "Now _get a move on._"

He pulled on her hand again, and this time she followed. They half-ran to the edge of the Forest and past the first trees; and Harry noted there was a distinct shift in Daphne's attitude. Her hand was gripping his a little tighter than before, and on two occasions he caught her glancing nervously over her shoulder, just as he had been doing a moment earlier.

For ten minutes they walked quickly and in total silence, focused on the ghostly menace of the Ministry's pursuit; most trees around them were young and sparse, their slim trunks pale in the silver moonlight that filtered through the thin bare branches and drew intricate patterns on the black, leaves-covered ground. Gradually, however, the trees got older, denser, the darkness around them thickening as heavy branches blocked the moonlight. Harry and Daphne stopped looking back, focusing instead on their immediate surroundings. The silence changed. Where it had been tense and filled with a very human apprehension, it grew deeper, more expectant, and oddly alien, as if they were surrounded by otherworldly creatures holding their breath.

Harry was acutely conscious of their presence, their watchfulness — whatever they were — although he could not explain what gave him such certitude; it was as if he perceived it with senses that weren't entirely physical. There was no wind, and no leaves on the trees, but he thought he could hear a faint whispering nevertheless, like the ghostly memory of breezes in long-gone foliage. He wondered if his imagination was playing tricks on him.

"Did you hear that?" Daphne murmured.

He shot a glance at her.

"As a matter of fact, I did," he slowly said. "I thought I was imagining it."

"This place feels… familiar," Daphne said, a thoughtful, almost dreamy expression on her feline features. She let go of his hand and took a few steps forward, inhaling deeply as if to smell the air.

Harry was brutally sobered by the loss of her contact. The hundred little discomforts and aches in his body, which he had stopped paying attention to, the warm sensation provided by the Heating Charm, everything vanished — once again, he felt cut off from the world by an impenetrable armour. He gritted his teeth on the violent, primal need to grab her and retrieve at her touch the ecstasy of feeling again. Maybe it was better that way, he mused. Maybe he would be able to concentrate better.

Even so, when he called her name and resolutely started advancing again, it was incredibly difficult to keep his hand from reaching out to her.

"I think I might have been here before!" Daphne excitedly said, falling back into step with him.

"No, you haven't," Harry snapped. "You'd remember it."

"All right, maybe I would. But it feels _so_ familiar… It's a little like going back into my old family house… Even if I've never lived in it, there's still that feeling that I_belong_ there, you see what I mean?"

Harry sighed in annoyance at her constant talking. His temper was rising; losing his sense of touch again was more frustrating than he had imagined it would. It was like being amputated of one limb. He glanced sideways at Daphne, wondering whether he would hold her hand again — just to _feel_ again, nothing else — but she seemed completely oblivious of his attention. She walked next to him, her nose in the air, her face bright with excitation, her steps confident and determined; there was a new air of independence about her.

A surge of pride stopped Harry from taking her hand: he would have looked — and felt — like a lost kid clinging to his mother.

"Let's hurry up, Greengrass," he said, cutting short another one of her excited tirades. "We're not completely safe yet."

He quickened his pace, forcing her to practically run in order to keep up with him. So they walked on, deeper and deeper towards the old core of the Forbidden Forest — and as they grew more and more aware of the presence of the Forest all around them, as they caught more plaintive whispers echoing faintly among the huge trunks of venerable trees, Harry forgot about the Ministry, about his condition, about the girl walking along with him. He thought back about that missed occasion, when he had wanted to return to the Forest as a wolf, before turning his back on the mystery of the song of the trees to fight the werewolves in Hogsmeade. Now, maybe at last, he would _know…_

"Here we are," Harry said at last.

In front of them rose the barrier of ancient trunks, pressed into each other like a rank of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder against the enemy, barely visible in the almost impenetrable darkness of the Forest's core. The whispers around them abruptly died, leaving behind a sticky silence, heavy with anticipation. Harry was slightly nauseous. His mounting excitement was mingled, for the first time in hours, with the old, slimy terror he had sometimes felt when touching Daphne or looking from a window of Hogwarts towards the Forest.

Strange he would experience this instinctive fear only now, when he was already at the edge of the Third Kind's territory… Had Daphne's presence protected him? This was the only solution he could think of…

"Yes," Daphne breathed. "Here we are." Her eyes were alight with that hunger he had seen there on several occasions. She was not afraid at all, he realised. She was only eager.

They stepped forward in unison, and Harry slid his hands in the crack between two trunks. Daphne's breathing quickened behind him as he pushed on the trees, and he heard her gasp as they easily parted under his hands to reveal the hidden world behind.

Together, they stared at the quiet alley, lined with vigorous trees, which stretched before them. It was going up, apparently climbing a soft-sloped hill to its top. The Forest here was bathed in golden sunlight filtering through a roof of soft green leaves, and the sound of running water filled the air.

"Come on," Harry whispered. He gently took Daphne's hand again, and they both stepped into the alley. The trees closed behind them with a soft rushing sound.

The core of the Forest was as Harry remembered it; the trees that grew there were quite slender, most of them as thick as a man's body, with a clear and smooth bark and green foliage that defied the winter. They did not seem to have been planted by a human hand: they grew haphazardly, sometimes in groups of three or four, sometimes isolated; only those bordering the alley respected a semblance of order. The light glowing in soft green-gold shades made it hard to believe that it was night outside.

Daphne gripped his hand very tight as they walked.

"What_is_ this place?" she asked in an awed whisper. "You've been here before, haven't you?"

"Yes, during the war… I don't know much about it, except that it's even older than Hogwarts itself. And apparently, it's always been hostile to wizards."

"Hostile to — what? What lives here? _What_ is hostile?"

Harry shot at her a sideways glance. "I thought you could hear them, too," he said, a little coolly.

She frowned, struggling to understand his words, and Harry impatiently gestured at their surroundings. The whispers were louder than ever, and this time they could hardly have been mistaken for the sound of the breeze in the leaves. They floated and hung in the air all around them, coiling around branches and lingering near the ground, like wisps of morning mist. Harry had the distinct impression that, should he halt and listen, he would catch words in the distant murmurs.

Daphne's eyes widened as the whispering reached her ears in turn; and it occurred to Harry that his enhanced hearing might have helped him perceive them.

"What are they saying?" his companion breathed, her pale eyes scanning the roof of tender leaves as though she expected to see the speaker perched in a tree's topmost branches.

"I don't know, and I don't think it's wise to stop here and try to understand them," Harry said curtly. "Hurry up, we're not there yet."

"But," Daphne protested, stumbling after him as he pulled her rather roughly by the hand. "But you said they don't like wizards!"

"I did. So?"

"Why would they accept us then?" Daphne's voice cracked, going high-pitched with fear as she reached the end of her sentence.

Harry turned to look over his shoulder at her pale, terrified face.

"The trees won't harm us, Greengrass. We're not wizards," he said. He had meant to sound reassuring, but to his great surprise, an odd pang of longing twisted his guts as he spoke. He suddenly felt incredibly isolated from the rest of the world, in that unearthly place, alone with the scared and clueless Daphne Greengrass.

"Potter," said the latter, no longer trying to control her trembling voice, "one day you'll have to sit down and explain to me what all this is about."

Harry slowed down a little, enabling her to come level with him, and he loosened his grip a little so that her hand rested limply in his. "I will, as soon as we're safe," he said in a softer tone. "I promise."

And all of sudden, the river was before them.

It looked much narrower than in Harry's memory. The water was shallow and crystal-clear, revealing a bed of fine sand that looked soft to the touch. There was no rock to break the smooth surface of the running water; and trees grew directly on the low banks, their roots digging into the sand. The murmurs here were drowned into the merry laughter of the river.

"We have to cross?" Daphne asked, hesitant.

"'Fraid so," Harry distractedly said. His mind was elsewhere; no matter how innocent and pure the river looked, he remembered, with burning acuity, the cold waters gripping him as he desperately tried to reach the far bank, the pain of the Cruciatus Curses gnawing at his insides. He also remembered the screams of the Death Eaters, squeezed to death by the graceful trees of the bank — those trees among which they now stood.

Two fingers snapped under his nose, jerking him sharply out of his memories.

"Earth to Potter! We had to hurry, remember?" Daphne irritably said. She had already undressed, keeping only her shirt and underwear on; her robes were rolled in a bundle and tucked under one arm.

Harry shook himself and merely got rid of his shoes, which he tied by the laces and hung around his neck; then he led Daphne into the river.

They were chest-deep into the water, and it ran cold and fast. Daphne was gripping his hand so hard he was quite sure she would end up bruising him; she was smaller and slighter than him, and he had to help her walk against the rapid currents. Their progression was slow and difficult. The memories of the last time he had crossed the river were still present to his mind, although he tried to shake them away, and he was rather keen to get out of the water. Furthermore, as they reached the middle of the river, he had the curious and highly unpleasant sensation that the water was biting off chunks of flesh from his calves, thighs and flanks.

"Almost there," he panted, wrapping an arm around Daphne's waist to help her steady herself. "Quick, I don't like staying in here too long…"

They reached the opposite bank, which was much higher than the one they had just left, and Harry hauled himself up first before gripping both of Daphne's hands to heave her in turn.

"There we go!" he said in one expelled breath, as the shivering and dripping wet Slytherin finally came to stand on the earthy bank next to him. "There shouldn't be—"

Daphne screamed.

She was looking back at the river they had just crossed, and blood had suddenly drawn away from her face, leaving it livid, with eyes open so wide in sheer horror that the white could be seen all around her irises, and her mouth gaping as she let out a horrible, blood-curdling scream.

Harry followed her gaze, his wand already in his hand; but it uselessly fell to the ground with a dull thud as he found what Daphne was looking at.

The slender willow-like trees that stood on the opposite shore had long roots, which plunged into the water and stretched along the soft slope of the bank in intricate nets of gnarly, pale wood — and taken in those nets were three corpses.

They were already in an advanced state of decay, most of the flesh having flaked off their bones, although hair still grew out of the skulls and floated in the water like a grotesque parody of seaweed. Wizards' robes billowed around their skeletal bodies, which were wrapped tightly into the huge roots of the trees — the throats were constricted, the ribcages staved in, the limbs broken by the trees' implacable grip.

Driven by a nauseated fascination, Harry let his gaze linger on a corpse with particularly long, dark thick hair. The right arm was the only limb that wasn't encircled with roots; it floated freely in the residual current near the shore, and the bony fingers still clutched a long wooden wand. The hollow eyes seemed to glare back at Harry as he watched, the currents causing the arm to move and wave the wand in his direction, in a macabre caricature of a duel. His sight dimmed, there was a rushing sound in his eyes; from far away, he thought he could hear a high, clear, cruel laughter.

Daphne suddenly wheeled around and fled, running as fast as she could, still screaming in animal terror. Harry's feet seemed to move of their own volition, hurling him into a mad run after Daphne, away from the laughter and from Bellatrix Lestrange's empty eyes.

How long their flight lasted, he could not tell; it was too much like the last time he had found himself here — running straight in front of him, desperately trying to escape the river where the Death Eaters died in the trees' clutches. He could not think. His ears were full of the dull sound of his feet hitting the earthy ground one after the other, his eyes fixed on the back of Daphne's blonde head. He soon caught up with her, grabbed her around the elbow, and forcibly dragged her faster and faster away from the river. She was stumbling in his wake, her breathing came in wheezing inhalations broken by an occasional whimper of fear, but he wouldn't let her rest.

The narrow, irregular path they were following abruptly opened on a small round clearing — and without warning, Harry's knees gave way under him. He tripped and fell in the rich summer grass covering the ground. He struggled to get up again — but his arms and legs seemed to have turned into jelly, and refused to support his weight. His lungs were on fire; each gulp of air seemed to weaken his body instead of strengthening it. He could feel a heaviness spreading into his limbs, pinning him to the ground.

_Like last time._

With a cry of effort, Harry tore himself from the suddenly overwhelming gravity, and managed to get on his hands and knees. He crawled across the clearing, stubbornly refusing to give in to the inviting softness of the grass. Something was at work here that he should have foreseen. Something was poisoning him, trying to keep him still — and he would be damned if he let them win so easily.

Blood was pounding in his ears by the time he had reached the other side of the clearing. In front of him was the largest tree of all, tall and majestic, its golden foliage stretched over his head. Panting with the effort, Harry heaved himself up one last time, trying to get to his feet — but once again he fell back. He was so tired. So weak…

In a surge of pride that looked, even to him, like the last burst of energy of a dying animal, he sat upright in the grass, leaning his back against the trunk of the tallest tree. His sight was dimming, but he could still see Daphne's body, sprawled helplessly in the grass in the middle of the clearing, where he had dropped her. Her eyes were open and staring at him, but they were no longer wide with fear and shock. Her features were now set in a calm, eerie expression of wondering.

"They're talking," she said, and her voice carried clearly to Harry's ears, even though it had been barely louder than a whisper. "I hear them. They're talking to me. They're talking to us…"

Then her voice was drowned in the melancholic song of the trees, soft and powerful, motherly and poisonous. It filled Harry's mind, vibrated through his entire body, and dulled all of his senses — until nothing was left but the words the trees sang in a lethal lullaby.

* * *

The song grew louder and louder. It was still sweet, still sad, but it had lost its ghostly quality — the music was issued from a human throat, he was sure of it.

Harry brusquely opened his eyes, and found himself lying face-down on a ground covered in thick, rich grass. He slowly rose to his knees, running a tentative hand over his face to brush off the blades of grass that would have clung to his skin — but to his surprise, he found none. He felt oddly weightless, without substance, as one would feel in a dream. Even as he looked down at his own body, he thought he looked much less real, much less _solid_ than the ground his knees rested upon.

Harry looked up, and knew immediately that whatever he was living could only be a dream. The landscape around him was strikingly familiar, yet he was sure he had never seen anything of the sort. It was a rich, green valley, at the centre of which nestled a calm lake gleaming in the twilight like a giant jewel. Hills rose in soft slopes around the lake, and one of them, higher than the others, towered over the still waters, its side carved into a rough cliff. The green stretches of grass were only broken here and there by low copses of dark-leaved, prickly bushes. Stars were starting to light up in the darkening sky and winked at him in familiar patterns.

It was a peaceful summer evening on Hogwarts valley.

But there was no castle built on top of the tallest hill; the green slopes had not yet been tamed into vast and tidy lawns; and most of all, there was not a single tree in sight in the whole valley — except for skinny firs huddling together at the foot of the great mountains, far away. This was Hogwarts valley as it had been before the Founders, and before the Forbidden Forest.

The singing behind him grew louder. Torn from his contemplation, he scrambled to his feet and scanned his surroundings, searching for the mysterious singer. He found them almost immediately.

It was a woman in her twenties, with long dark hair hanging loosely down her back, which was clad in a simple white tunic. A circle of gold was on her forehead and vanished into her hair. She was barefoot in the grass and stood with her arms outstretched, as if wanting to embrace the whole world, her head thrown back and her eyes half-closed. She sang beautifully, in a tongue unknown to him, clear and lilting.

Harry listened, mesmerized; he wondered for a moment if the song, which oddly reminded him of the trees' murmurs, held some magical power of its own. But he soon realised it was nothing of the sort: the woman was entirely human, and her song was just a beautiful tune sung with a beautiful voice. She finished on a high note, the sound so perfectly crystalline that it was almost unnatural — almost.

"You did not choose the merriest melody, my Queen," an amused voice said from somewhere on Harry's right.

The singer laughed, dropping her arms to her sides and turning to gaze at the newcomer — a woman her age, wearing the same white tunic. Aside from their clothes, both women were radically different: the second, taller and broader in the shoulder, looked as athletic as the young queen was frail; her features reminded Harry of Greek statues, and it was framed by a luscious mane of golden-blonde hair.

"Rosalyn," the young queen greeted, extending both hands to the blonde woman. The newcomer took them in her own and respectfully lifted them to her lips.

"I told you to call me by my name when you aren't on duty, my friend," the queen added.

"Your mother's old courtiers have criticised our closeness many times," Rosalyn answered with a half smile. "Don't doubt they will mutter a lot about you idling around in the valley with me when you should be planning our next move in the war."

"The war," the queen sighed. "I'm so sick of this war, Rosalyn. I'd much rather be here and enjoy the peace of the evening than hear the pleas and complaints of hundreds of people. Why can't the captains plan an attack that would definitely subdue this handful of wizards, instead of expecting me to do all the work?"

"It's not so simple, Cassie. The wizards are putting up a good fight."

"Nonsense. They are _wizards._ Any decently gifted Isiame would be able to fight off at least three or four of them."

"Cassie," Rosalyn patiently repeated. "Things are not as simple as they were in the past. The wizards' leaders are four powerful magicians, and they are teaching their art to many young people of their kind. They are now mastering quite well what little magic they possess. And don't forget they outnumber us."

Cassie sighed and hugged herself, her long dark hair floating around her face in the light evening breeze.

"What would be your advice, Rosa?" she asked. "What should I do?"

"In my opinion, there isn't much left to do," the blonde servant said. "We should have gone into hiding long ago. As things are, we have already lost this war."

"You can't be serious!"

"Cassiopeia," Rosalyn interrupted, suddenly stern. "I wish the situation would be different, but there is no point in deluding ourselves. The wizards, although they were born weaker, are now stronger than we are. It is only a matter of time before they find this place — our last shelter — and try to erase the people of Isiames from the face of the world."

The dark-haired queen shook her head with calm incredulity. "The wizards, here? That is not possible. I cannot imagine them sullying these grounds with their presence. I didn't know you as such a pessimistic person, Rosa. Nor did I ever think you would be discouraged at the first sign of resistance from those wizards, and give up on fighting so easily."

"I am lucid, my Queen," Rosalyn said, her harmonious features set in a grave expression, tinted with sadness. "I never said I would give up on fighting. Should you choose to face the wizards, instead of hiding from them, I would happily fight at your side to my death."

For the first time, an uneasy expression crossed Cassiopeia's face. Harry thought he saw her shivering as she turned her back on him to stare in the distance, far beyond the mountains shielding the Hogwarts valley from the outside world. Harry used the opportunity to scan the valley more closely — and indeed, soon enough, he had caught sight of an encampment covering one side of a shadowed hill. What looked like colourful, luxurious tents stood erect on the grass, and the tiny shadows of men, women and horses moved to and fro between them. Here was the court of the queen Cassiopeia, looking as if it was taking a vacation in the peaceful valley.

"Let's talk of something else," the queen brusquely said, claiming back Harry's attention. "I don't like speaking of the war."

"As you wish, Cassie," Rosalyn said. "How is your little Clio?"

Cassiopeia relaxed visibly at the change of subject, her shoulders dropping slightly as the tension that had stiffened them evaporated. "My little devil will be four years old next spring," she said with a fond smile. "When you see her running around among dogs and horses and wrestling with the servants' children, it's hard to believe she will be the queen of Isiames one day."

"We were hardly older than she is when we started escaping our governess to go wandering into the streets, dressed as little maids," Rosalyn reminded her with something that looked like forced gaiety.

Cassiopeia threw her head back and laughed. She had casually wrapped her arm around Rosalyn's, and the two women were now descending the hill toward the encampment. In doing so, they drew closer to Harry — and the details of their faces seemed to blur at the same time. The landscape was slowly dissolving into colourful mists around him, and he felt the dream escape him in spite of his efforts to continue it.

"I think you are Clio's role model, Rosa…"

In the mist, Cassiopeia's voice still drifted to him, at times distant, at other times so close he thought he would touch her if he reached out.

"She hardly ever listens to me, her mother…"

And as everything around him blurred into shapeless vapour, the young queen's face came into sharp focus one last time — very close to him, and facing him directly for the first time. Harry let out a shocked scream that made no noise at all in the greyish mist.

Cassiopeia had almond-shaped eyes, of an extraordinarily bright shade of green. They were, unmistakeably, his mother's eyes.

* * *

The dream changed. Around him the mist cleared again to reveal the same landscape he had just left, now under a dark sky that started to pale at the East. But the colourful tents and slender women in silk tunics had disappeared, to be replaced by hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers in armour, carrying swords and staffs and wands. The chaos was total. Harry turned his head this way and that, but no matter where he looked, all he could see was people screaming, striking and dying, knights pushing their horses in throngs of soldiers on foot, and the lights of spells mingling with the flashing of harsh iron.

Directly in front of him, their backs to him, male and female archers clad in coats of mail knelt on the ground. Rings shone on the fingers of their left hands, which gripped the wood of their long bow, but their right hands were bare and stretched the thin string as far as it would go; held between two fingers were arrows with tails of bright green feathers.

As Harry watched, they all pointed their arrows to the sky and shot, before extending their ring-covered hands towards the advancing enemy and shouting a command in the same lilting language the queen Cassiopeia had been singing. The wind angrily rushed and hissed in response, viciously catching the advancing wizards in the shins and forcing them backwards, under the lethal shower of arrows. There were cries of shock and anguish as the arrows struck down several knights, horses and humbler soldiers.

But more kept coming.

"Archers! Nock!" a female voice shouted behind Harry. He glanced over his shoulder and reflexively ducked as a young man in a coat of mail ran past him, brandishing a heavy spear and holding up a strange-looking amulet in his other hand — and as Harry moved out of his way, he was brought in sight of the woman who had given the order.

Here she was, the dark-haired, green-eyed Cassiopeia, who had so obstinately refused to believe the war could tarnish the grounds of Hogwarts. Mounting a bay horse, wearing white armour, she held in one hand a long and sharp sword and in the other a staff, which looked like the slender, intact trunk of a very young tree.

The archers all reached back to take another long arrow from the quiver tied to their backs, but before their fingers could close on the green-feathered tail, a deep voice shouted from the enemy's ranks, _"Incarcerous serpentiae!"_

An archer yelped as snakes suddenly burst into existence on the ground in front of her and coiled themselves around her body, binding her. The deep voice yelled again, and again snakes came into being, winding their way around the lithe bodies, seeking bare flesh in the flaws of the coats of mail.

Harry could not detach his eyes from the writhing archers, screaming in fear and rage as they tried to get rid of their live bounds. Several of them managed to keep their sangfroid and, closing their eyes, started muttering under their breath. The snakes wrapped around them suddenly started burning and before long fell to the ground, reduced to ashes. But they were few who didn't fall prey to panic.

Meanwhile, encouraged by the archers' rout, the wizards let out loud battle cries and started moving forward again.

Cassiopeia lifted her staff.

Her powerful chant dominated all the other noises of the battle, and some wizards faltered as it echoed against the distant mountains. Harry saw most of them only had roughly carved wands, from which showers of sparks spurted out at all times; managing a decent spell with such a poor tool seemed like a huge achievement.

The Isiame queen reached a final, oddly sinister high-pitched note, and jabbed her staff at the ranks of advancing wizards. At the same instant, the deep voice Harry had heard hexing the archers sounded again from the middle of the wizarding army.

"_Attack!"_

The word was unusually harsh and guttural, and Harry realised with a shock that the man had spoken in Parseltongue. A second after that order had been given, dozens of snakes that had been winding their way through the grass to the Isiame ranks, silent and unseen, rose and struck all men and beasts that were within their reach.

Harry barely had the time to glimpse at the Parselmouth — a quite young wizard on a piebald horse, with pinched, monkey-like features and a short black beard, raising a finely-made wand — before Cassiopeia's magic crashed upon the wizarding army.

The lake's waters rose and gathered in a tidal wave as the queen's command; blindly following Cassiopeia's words, the gigantic wave hurled itself at the wizards and broke upon them with a deafening thunder-like sound, knocking out and drowning those it didn't kill instantly. The water rushed forward, irresistibly taking away wrecks of war machines, men and horses, until several wizards gathered their wits and managed to save themselves with a few well-placed spells. The wizarding attack was a failure; their dead piled up on the soaked grass.

However, the Isiames were hardly in better shape. For every wizard they killed, ten more seemed to sprout from the earth. Harry saw many of them sag to the ground, exhausted, to be finished off there with swords, knifes and hammers. Blood streamed on the soft, green slopes of the valley. Its stench infected the air. The queen Cassiopeia was pale as a ghost, her lean features drawn with fatigue; but even in the state she was in, it seemed that no wizard, as of yet, dared challenge her. The magic she wielded was such that a single of her spells was enough to drive off the fiercest attack.

To Harry, the outcome of the battle was clear. Sooner or later, the last powerful Isiames would fall under the repeated assaults, and the young queen would have to face alone the still-formidable strengths of the wizarding army. No doubt she would take many other lives, even then, but in the end she would succumb under the sheer number of her opponents. It was hopeless.

Harry suddenly wished he would wake up and escape from the dream. He was not sure he wanted to witness the end of the Isiames; already the battle was turning into a slaughter. Watching the young Cassiopeia sitting up straight and proud on her saddle and chanting in her crystal-clear voice, and knowing that she would finally fall to the ground and be killed like game in a hunting party… It brought a bitter taste in his mouth — a hollow kind of sadness mingled with disgust.

"Cassie!"

The scream came from a group of Isiames in armour who were ascending the hill on top of which the queen stood, all the while backing up in front of a battalion of wizards without ever breaking the fight. They fought with swords, all magical tools momentarily forgotten, and the heavy blades moved so fast that all Harry could see was the pale light of the dawn reflected on the steel.

"Cassie!" the Isiame called again. She was female, and strands of golden hair escaped from her bloodied helmet. Although her voice was now harsh and frightened, Harry had no trouble recognising her.

"Rosa!" the queen called back. "Step back! I can—"

"No!" Rosalyn shouted. "Stay where you are!"

She cried out and brought her blade down on her opponent with all her might. The wizard's weapon was knocked out of his hand, and without giving him time to recover Rosalyn beheaded him in one fluid gesture. More blood splattered against her coat of mail and helmet, but she hardly flinched. Using her momentum, she drove her sword right through another wizard's flank, easily taking him by surprise while he struggled against another Isiame.

"Archers!" Rosalyn called. The words were barely out of her mouth when five other wizards fell, pierced with poisonous arrows. The rest fled as more arrows showered down on them; the queen's archers were shooting three arrows at a time.

Rosalyn carefully lifted her helmet from her head, freeing her long, thick mane of golden hair, and brought a hand up to a gash in her forehead. Blood was running along her straight nose and she irritably blinked as it dripped into her eyes.

"Don't touch that," Cassiopeia said, slapping her friend's hand down. "I think I can heal it."

She brought her horse around so that Rosalyn could lean on the flank of the tall animal and bent down, examining the wound closely. Rosalyn didn't move. Around them, the battle was still going on, and the queen's skills were probably required elsewhere; but it was clear she would not do anything before she had healed her faithful servant first.

Cassiopeia blew softly on the gash, her fingers brushing lightly against the lips of the wound as if she was stitching them back together. She whispered the same word, over and over again, and although Harry drew as close to her as possible, he could not hear what she was saying. Rosalyn's eyes were closed and she had a serene expression, contrasting with the rage and fear that had been so clearly painted on her face minutes previously.

"There," Cassiopeia said at last. "It's closed, and it is already half-healed. It should not bother you anymore."

Rosalyn opened her eyes and smiled up at her. "Thank you, Cassie. I will need all my strengths for what is to come."

"What do you mean? You're not thinking of going back to the battle, I hope?"

But Rosalyn's smile had already faded, and her face was set in a stony determination. "I told you once, my Queen, on this very hill, that should the need arise I would happily fight to my death at your side. I feel the time has now come for me to fulfil this promise."

"Rosa—"

"Cassie, you need to run," Rosalyn interrupted. "Take Clio and run. Don't let these wizards get their hands on your child! Don't let them extinguish our kind so completely—"

"Rosa, you—"

"Cassie, please!"

Cassiopeia fell quiet, and Harry could see shock, pain and affection all at once in her expression as she stared into her servant's imploring face, as if her emotions were written on her skin. Finally her bright green eyes closed, and a single tear escaped from under a lid and rolled on her cheek.

"How?" she asked in a murmur. "They're surrounding us."

"Give me your coat of mail and helmet," Rosalyn said in a low voice. "I can still use my powers — they will think I am you, so they won't pay you any attention at all, and I'll be able to hold them off while you get away."

Cassiopeia's gaze trailed away, on her beloved valley stained by the scent of blood and spilled entrails, on her soldiers dying one by one under the wizards' blows, on the handful of servants that remained grouped around her, covered in wounds and grime.

"So be it," she said.

She dismounted her horse and exchanged her armour with Rosalyn's. It was quickly and neatly done. Cassiopeia only took the time to press her startled servant's hands to her lips before she gripped tightly her sword and staff and walked away, leaving the faithful Rosalyn to her fate.

"Five women go with the queen," Rosalyn ordered shortly. "We'll need the men here."

Her orders were promptly obeyed. Men and women around her had the grim faces of those who know they are going to die, but who plan to make the enemy pay dearly for it. And as Cassiopeia fled in the bleak half-light of the dawn, Rosalyn and her army screamed a last challenge and dived back into the battle.

Harry immediately saw the wizard heading for the last Isiame fighters: he was very young, sixteen or seventeen at most, and combined a boyishly handsome face with the strong stature of the man used to rough and prolonged effort. He mounted a black stallion and wore a red and gold tunic over his coat of mail, and had not bothered lowering his helmet in front of his face. With a yell of triumph, he headed directly for Rosalyn's bay horse, his sword held high above his head. He had not drawn his wand, which could be seen tucked safely in his leather belt.

Rosalyn brought Cassiopeia's horse around at the last minute, her sword meeting the boy's with a great chink of steel. It became clear after ten seconds that she was a lot more skilled at sword-fighting on horseback than her young opponent; however, the wizard was blinded by his confidence in his own power, and it was only when he narrowly warded off a blow that could have taken off his head that he started feeling his belt feverishly for his wand.

His face froze in a horrified mask as he failed to retrieve the magical weapon. Rosalyn let out a peal of ruthless laughter, and blocking the boy's sword with her own, she used her other hand to draw a wand from her own belt.

"Would you be looking for this, my young sir knight?" she asked. "You should have put it away when we first crossed swords. How unwise of you."

"You stole from me!" the boy screamed, outrage and fear mingling in his voice. "You cowardly creature, do you have no honour?"

"Honour has nothing to do with our situation, sir knight," Rosalyn snarled in answer. With one hand, she easily bent the wand against her saddle until it broke in halves. "I will not use my magical power. And you will not use yours. This is a duel of swords, wizard!"

Her voice had risen to a shout on the last word, and the young wizard let out a defiant scream in echo. For another three seconds, maybe, the air was full of the sound of steel ringing against steel, the swords moving too fast for Harry to make out the moves — then all of sudden, the boy's sword was torn from his grip by a vicious strike. He had no time to recover before Rosalyn's sword dug in his throat.

His eyes widened incredulously, his mouth opening on one last protestation before she drove the wide blade all the way through the neck, breaking vertebras with a nasty crack. Rosalyn pulled on her sword, causing the boy's body to fall down from his horse and to the ground, then lifted the bloodied blade high above her head with a cry of triumph.

Almost immediately, a scream of terrible anguish answered her.

"My son! Geoffrey!"

Startled, Harry wheeled about and scanned the vast army of wizards, but he didn't need to look very far to spot the man who had screamed. He, too, rode a black horse and wore the red and gold tunic. The face Harry glimpsed under the open helmet was partly hidden by a well-groomed brown beard, but the resemblance with the dead youth was still clearly visible. This face looked vaguely familiar to him, but he could not remember where he had seen it before. The idea was ludicrous anyway — the wizard had probably been dead for centuries.

The dead boy's father yelled again, this time expressing such murderous fury that Harry felt the urgent need to hide away from him, even though he knew he could not be physically harmed.

"You will pay for this, creature of Hell!" the red-and-gold knight roared, lifting his own sword high above his head as he pushed his horse through the throng of wizards, caring little for those who were knocked down or trampled on in his haste to get to the blonde Isiame.

And Harry had a sudden flash of recognition — the sword. He knew it. He had wielded it.

_Four__powerful magicians leading the wizarding army, a Parselmouth looking like a monkey, a red and gold tunic… and of course, this is happening here, at Hogwarts — how could I be so _stupid?_This is the Founders' battle. This is when they conquered Hogwarts._

He now recognised the knight forcing his way through the crowd of soldiers; he was Godric Gryffindor, whose statue was in a corner of his old common room. And the sword he held was the very same Harry had used to kill the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, almost ten years ago.

Distracted by Gryffindor's sudden appearance, Harry had lost track of the battle, and he found himself searching the valley for signs of Isiames while keeping an eye on the Hogwarts Founder. He could recognise Rosalyn from a good distance — she was back on the hill she had defended for so long, swinging her sword left and right and leaving a trail of blood in her path. Through her staff, she directed some of her wind-magic at her opponents. Harry could tell she was weakening; her magic was nowhere near what the queen's had been, and her blows were less precise, more brutal. Nevertheless, she looked so fearsome in her bloodstained coat of mail, shouting orders to the survivors of the Isiame army and yelling with pure bloodlust every time she struck, that Harry was not surprised to see wizards fleeing before her.

"Godric! Don't!" called a deep voice.

"She killed Geoffrey, Salazar. She _killed_him! I will kill her!"

"Geoffrey's death is a terrible blow for all four of us, Godric," the first wizard snapped. Harry now recognised the voice: it was the Parselmouth he had caught sight of earlier in the midst of the battle. He saw the slim, monkey-like little man catching up to Gryffindor's black stallion, mounted on the same placid piebald horse.

_How did he survive that tidal wave?_

"We are all grieved," Salazar Slytherin insisted. "But if you attack her so recklessly, you will die too, without having avenged your son. She is the queen of their kind, Godric! You won't be able to kill her!"

"Then what do you suggest?" Gryffindor snarled, half-turning in his saddle to face the other wizard. "Quickly, now, before she massacre half of our people."

"We should pool our skills," Slytherin said. "Give me your sword."

Gryffindor only hesitated for a second before he handed his sword to the Parselmouth. Slytherin seized it and took the time to examine the carvings into the hilt and blade; Harry watched, fascinated, as he slowly raised his wand over the sword and started chanting softly, at times slipping into Parseltongue. Magic gathered at the tip of his wand, raw power of such intensity than Harry perceived it even in his dream, and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"And as the wise says," a pensive woman's voice stated, "two heads are better than one — but four heads are much better than two."

Two white horses were approaching them, both mounted by witches. Harry had been expecting their arrival and did not even wonder about their identities; the grave-looking woman in the blue tunic was obviously Rowena Ravenclaw, while her slightly rounder companion could only be Helga Hufflepuff.

Harry was standing in the presence of the four Founders of Hogwarts.

Oblivious of the battle still raging all around them, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff added their own enchantments to the sword, until the steel was quivering with the magic it had accumulated. When they were finished, Slytherin delicately took the sword right under the hilt and presented it to Godric Gryffindor.

"May you be successful, Godric," he said, his usually dry tone failing at masking the emotion behind his words.

Gryffindor seized his sword and touched the knob of the hilt with the tip of his own wand.

"And thus I call you the Bane of Cassiopeia," he growled. The sword shone with a red glow, for one brief moment, before going back to its normal aspect — every inch of its blade and hilt now weighed down by the enchantments of the four most powerful witches and wizards in History.

Gryffindor tucked his wand back into his belt and gripped his sword firmly in his right hand, using the left to steer the stallion towards the Isiames' hill.

He was upon her in a surprisingly short amount of time. Rosalyn's sword crossed his, and almost immediately Harry saw her flinch, as if in pain. Gryffindor's sword buzzed with raw power, and it soon appeared that the spells were digging into Rosalyn's weakened defences with derisory easiness. In spite of everything, she was putting up a good fight, using her considerable skills at sword-fighting to ward off the murderous blows.

Rosalyn's horse helplessly whinnied as its mistress forced it again into a brusque swerve, and its knees buckled. Its slender and sinewy legs were trembling under its weight, and it noisily blew air from its nostrils, head hung in exhaustion, foam dripping from its wide lips. It did not take long to Rosalyn to notice the danger and react: in the blink of an eye she dismounted her staggering horse, landing neatly on her feet, her sword planted in the grass beside her.

"Come on, wizard," she shouted as she picked up her weapon again. "Are you afraid of being level with me? Get down that horse!"

She was digging her own grave, and she knew it, Harry realised. Even without counting the enchanted sword, on foot and exhausted as she was, she didn't stand a chance against a wizard in the prime of life — much less Godric Gryffindor.

It happened fast. The swords rang against one another, then, with little effort, Gryffindor sent Rosalyn's weapon flying into the air. It landed on the muddy shore of the lake, where the sludge soon swallowed it whole.

At the same moment, bright lightning flashed three times beyond the mountains surrounding the valley. Gryffindor started, his attention briefly diverted from his defeated opponent.

Rosalyn threw her head back and laughed. "Did you see those flashes, wizard?" she shot at Gryffindor. "It was our queen, Cassiopeia, sending you a last message. You failed!"

Still laughing in relief and triumph, the Isiame tore her helmet from her head and the rising sun caught at once in her golden hair. "Now, you may kill the Isiame queen's_maid_, if you feel able to," Rosalyn jeered, a fierce joy illuminating her Greek-like features. "But know that my queen is forever out of your reach—"

The rest of her sentence was lost in a gasp of pain, as Gryffindor plunged his sword into her belly.

Rosalyn stared down at the blade protruding from her coat of mail, which had been effortlessly ripped open by the Founders' spells. She sank to her knees, silently piling up on the ground like a neglected heap of used laundry, and her hands rose to curl on the hilt of the sword. Gryffindor immediately let go of the sword, as if afraid of getting burnt at her contact.

Rosalyn's head remained bent on the Founders' weapon for a long time before she raised her eyes again to gaze up at her silent victor. And then, as her eyes started sliding out of focus, as she apparently stopped seeing Gryffindor, the valley, and the dead piling up on the grass, she started singing.

It was only a thin, pitiful little voice, which soon would be stifled by the blood rising up from her shredded entrails; but Harry recognised the melody at once: it was Cassiopeia's song. _You did not choose the merriest melody, my Queen…_

Gryffindor stood frozen in front of the dying Isiame, apparently unable to avert his eyes from her kneeling form, and unwilling to put an end to her suffering by ripping the sword out of her body and finishing her off. Rosalyn sang, and her weak voice seemed to ring across the entire valley, accompanying the surviving Isiames in their last fight.

For the battle had not ended with Gryffindor and Rosalyn's duel; here and there, some grouped, some isolated, Isiames were still desperately struggling. But the fight was quickly turning into a massacre. Following the three other Founders' encouragements and example, wizards made a point in not letting a single Isiame escape alive. The row of Cassiopeia's archers had died where they had fought, kneeling shoulder to shoulder in a tight line, facing the enemy. In a depression created by several explosive spells, blood was gathering and streaming slowly away on the hillside, like a morbid river. And still, Rosalyn sang in the rising sun.

* * *

The vision faded again around Harry. When his surroundings came back into focus around him, he was shocked to see the valley almost exactly as it had been in his first dream, stretching this time under a sky masked by grey clouds heavy with rain. Patches of burnt grounds and small craters did attest that a battle had occurred there, but the grass had grown back, thick and green, the lake was smooth and serene again, and there was still no castle built on the tallest hill.

On the other hand, trees now encircled him.

They were thin and young, and covered the hill on which Rosalyn had died; in fact, the tree closest to him — a white-barked tree with golden foliage — grew precisely on the spot where the young Isiame had fallen. Other trees grew in bouquets, some stood alone. In a narrow crevasse, a muddy stream sluggishly made its way towards the distant lake; and beyond the stream, he could see more trees sprouting haphazardly from the ground, until his eyes met a row of trees growing so close to each other there wasn't any space between their trunks. There ended the first hints of what would one day become the Forbidden Forest.

"…such a crazy idea. We could build it anywhere in the world! Why here?"

"Godric, this is where we stood united and defeated the Third Kind! Where else would we find such symbolism of our harmony? Besides — look around you. The valley is beautiful. There is plenty of space to build the school we all dream of. The mountains shield us from prying eyes. This valley is a gift to the Wizard Kind!"

The voices were distant but at the same time surprisingly loud, as if sounding from the extremity of a long tunnel which amplified them. Harry tried to hurry out of the forest, heading for where the voiced came from, and found himself gliding dreamily across the ground instead at surprising speed — soon he had passed the row of trees and caught sight of Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, walking slowly across the hills and immersed in deep conversation.

"I don't like it," Gryffindor said. "These grounds reek of their presence still. Their hatred is still palpable. Is it really where you want to raise young people of our kin?"

"Don't you see," Slytherin said with a tone of infinite patience, "that having generations upon generations of young magical folk grow up here, learning our art, is precisely the best way to secure these lands? Make them ours, by destroying the Third Kind's lingering influence. This is our chance, Godric. Our chance to — what? What is it?"

Gryffindor had gone very white as he stared right through Harry at the young trees cresting the hill.

"Those trees," he said, his voice toneless. "They weren't there three months ago."

"So?"

"And the way they're growing…"

"What about it?" Slytherin asked, failing to contain his impatience.

"Don't you _see?_ That row of trees — it's precisely where their archers were killed, all in a row… And behind those, that tree standing alone, that's where Rowena killed an aging man… And can you see that pale tree with golden leaves, in the distance?"

Slytherin peered at the forest, his creasing forehead giving away the first sign of worry in his haughty stance. "I think so," he slowly said. "You're thinking of that blonde girl you killed with the sword?"

Gryffindor nodded. "She was right there," he insisted, his voice hoarse. "The tree grew on the earth that was soaked with her blood. Just like for the archers."

The two men stood side by side in silence for several long minutes, staring thoughtfully at the Forest. Gryffindor, who was thinner and paler than last time Harry had seen him, couldn't seem to be able to avert his gaze from Rosalyn's tree; his eyes were dark and haunted, none of the old fierce vitality remaining into them. Slytherin was absentmindedly playing with a leather bracelet on his right wrist, lips pinched and brow furrowed.

"It could be," Slytherin murmured, "that a trace of them still remains in those trees… Let's see…"

He drew back his richly embroidered robes, revealing the black leather belt from which hung a wide-bladed sword and a wand. He pulled out the wand in such a quick gesture that Harry almost missed it, and jabbed it at the young trees with a harsh incantation that sounded totally foreign to the young Auror's ears.

A column of blue fire, as thick as a man's body, erupted from Slytherin's wand and crashed into the tight row of trees, inundating them with blue flames; Harry saw the grass lie flat on the ground and turn brown under the blast of the spell, and the faraway mountains were illuminated with a pale blue glow. But when the flames dissipated, not a single scorch mark marred the pale bark of the trees. Not a single one of their leaves was singed.

Then, before Harry and the two founders' eyes, the trees that were hit with the blue fire grew several feet taller. Their trunks thickened until their barks touched. Their foliage turned dark green and as spiky as holly leaves. The bark visibly darkened as if it was aging at top speed. The roots grew thicker, more gnarly, and buried themselves more firmly into the ground.

Then the rustling of leaves and creaking of wood faded into silence. Gryffindor's expression had not changed at all, but Slytherin now looked distinctly uneasy. He lowered his wand, nervously bringing his left hand to his right and twirling his bracelet in his fingers.

"They are still alive," he rasped.

"Them, or a ghost of their spirit," Gryffindor said in the same toneless voice. "Who knows?"

A strong wind rustled the leaves of the magically aged trees, which now stood in an impenetrable-looking barrier — already very similar to what they would look like more than a thousand years later.

"We have to warn Rowena and Helga," Slytherin said brusquely. "Do something to isolate the threat before we start building our school."

Gryffindor gave a brief, sinister bark of laughter. "So you still want to have the school built here? After seeing evidence of their presence, of their power?"

Slytherin stared at his friend, his pale face set in a hard, cold mask; there was disappointment on his razor-sharp features.

"I never knew you as such a coward, Godric," he stated coolly.

"You certainly do not know me so well if you're trying this old trick on me, Salazar," Gryffindor retorted. "This is not about courage; I would risk my life for you, for Rowena and Helga, or for our cause, without a second thought. You know it. This is about risking the lives of young children by bringing them in such close contact with the remains of the Third Kind's old wrath. And this is about disturbing the graves of people who were, in spite of everything, worthy opponents."

Gryffindor detached his eyes from Slytherin and stared in the distance, through the barrier of the archers' trees, towards the point where Harry knew Rosalyn's gold-capped tree stood.

"They have fought bravely," he said, grave and solemn. "Their blood impregnated the earth, and the mountains still echo with their screams. Those trees stand where they have fallen. This land is theirs. Let them rest in peace, Salazar. I don't want to disturb their souls, no matter how much wrong they did to me and my kin."

"You are a sentimentalist fool, did anyone ever tell you that?" Slytherin replied, but there was affection in his voice. "Let's get back to the camp. We have to tell Rowena and Helga about this anyway; and I do hope I can convince you. This project, Godric, is the accomplishment of my whole life."

"I know that," Gryffindor said. "Believe me, old friend, I know it."

Slytherin had a thin, slightly bitter smile. Seizing Gryffindor's arm, he gently pulled him around and forced him to tear his gaze away from the Forest. Both men turned their backs on Harry and started walking down the hill and away from the trees, talking in low voices. Harry made to follow them, when the grey clouds suddenly crept down the sky, rolled down the mountains and filled the valley like water pouring into a bowl. Thick grey fog surrounded him, drowning completely the sight of the hills, the mountains and the trees.

* * *

"I'm leaving!"

Some of the mist cleared again, but most of it remained, wrapped around the indistinct shapes of the tree trunks and branches, and trailing on the ground like ghostly scraps of frayed cloth. The trees around him looked taller and gloomier, and the eerie green light Harry knew was dimmed by the mist that lay upon the Forest.

Male voices rang again, harsh and resentful. Once more they sounded far away but were magnified several times — in such a way that they echoed ominously all around Harry, the sound assailing him from all directions at the same time.

"Where are your beautiful speeches, Salazar?" snarled another voice. "Where is your enthusiasm for this school? Where are your lectures on unity and brotherhood?"

"This was _my_ school!" the first voice shouted. "_I_ had to convince you all to build it here! This was the achievement of a life of dreams and hard work! And you want to turn it into a refuge for all the weaklings in possession of a single bit of magic — for the sons of those who hunt down and kill our race! Those filthy traitors, who will turn against us at the first opportunity, sell us to their real masters, and stain our blood by taking our daughters as they please!"

"They are magical, Salazar," said a quiet, deep female voice. "Just like any of our own children. They deserve knowledge, if they seek it."

"Salazar, listen—" interrupted another female voice, higher than the first one.

"Listen?_Listen?_" A harsh bout of laughter reached Harry's ears. "Do you really expect me to stay here and watch the school I created fall into the hands of those wizard-hunters? I don't think so! I love it more than all three of you. I saw its birth. I shall not see its downfall!"

"Leave, then!" Gryffindor's voice shouted in rage. "You want to toss these children away, when they have been rejected by their friends and families for their talents already? Then you are no longer worthy of leading this school. Leave! We have no use for you!"

"Godric!" the second woman yelled. "How can you—"

But Slytherin's laughter cut through her words again. "Sweet Helga, always flinching away from conflict," he spat. "Don't waste your breath. You can't shut this fool up; he lets his gut talk instead of his head. He forgets he was afraid of those we destroyed, afraid enough to hesitate to build anything on their conquered lands!"

"The Third Kind belongs to the past, but I do not make the mistake of thinking they are all extinct, as you do," Gryffindor growled in answer. "I won't relax my watch. I will train as many wizards as I can, give them all the training they deserve, no matter what their origins are. I will fill the world with skilled wizards, should our deadliest enemy rise again and try to conquer what they have once lost."

"And they call you brave!" Slytherin screamed in derision. Harry heard the slam of a riding crop and a short whinnying, then the sound of hooves hitting the earthy ground, taking Salazar Slytherin away.

In the ensuing quiet, Gryffindor spat a loud oath and departed, his boots thumping dully on the ground.

"Well, the Third Kind does seem to have achieved something," Hufflepuff's voice said.

"What is that, Helga?" Ravenclaw asked in a murmur.

"Dividing us."

Laughter bubbled and rose all around Harry, gleeful, fierce laughter, coming from the very ground his feet rested upon and shaking the trees circling him. A shiver ran along his spine, and more than ever he wished he would wake up, as the spirits of the massacred Isiame army laughed at the disunited Founders.

* * *

When the mist around him thickened once more, wiping colours and shapes from his vision, he dearly hoped his wish would be granted at last. The song of the trees, he realised, was no more than the telling of the Forest's history, and he felt that all significant events had already been shown to him. It finally explained, at least, why the Founders had built Hogwarts right next to a Forest so hateful of wizards; it also clarified the exact nature of the trees. It appeared that Hermione, Ron and him had been wrong to think they were actual creatures — but Harry had never heard of human spirits of this nature, still powerful enough to be able to live, move, kill and reminisce long after the bodies were dead. Then again, the Third Kind — or _Isiames_, since such was their name — defied all laws of conventional magic.

It was interesting, certainly — and seeing the Founders themselves had filled him with an excitement he hadn't felt in a long time — but it was trying. Everything was so vivid, so passionate, so hateful and melancholic at the same time, that he felt a sort of strain, as if witnessing all those events required a great effort from him.

He wondered what had become of the fugitive queen. He also wondered how her eyes could be exactly like his mother's — this shade of green was so rare that he was reluctant to think of a coincidence.

Could he be an Isiame through his mother? Had she been a distant descendant of Cassiopeia's?

His reverie was interrupted as the mist cleared yet again around him. However he was disappointed again: it became quickly obvious that the trees would not let him come back to his own time yet.

This time, he was perched on one of the archers' trees, sitting astride a huge branch. On his right, Rosalyn's hill was covered with the spirit-trees of her army, forming the core of the Forbidden Forest; on his left, the rest of the Forest spread, all normal trees growing in an air contaminated by the hatred seeping from the hill. The trees there were much younger than in his time, and quite sparser; low bushes ran all over the ground their roots didn't cover. The sun managed to pierce the thinner foliage, throwing patches of pale light on the black humus. On the whole, the Forest looked much tamer than Harry remembered it from his schooldays.

The sound of hooves far on his left caught his attention. A mounted horse was moving in the distance among the normal trees, slowly drawing closer to the barrier of archer-trees, following the exact same path Harry had taken himself several times. Harry waited a few seconds, squinting in his attempt to make out the features of the yet indistinct rider; a sort of hood threw a shadow upon his face.

It wasn't until the horse halted in front of the barrier that the man tossed his hood back, exposing himself to the daylight. At once, Harry frowned and instinctively bent forward, peering closely at the rider's face. The man had sharp, intelligent features, his tanned skin illuminated by pale blue eyes; long chestnut hair fell in two curtains on each side of his face. It was familiar, but only vaguely, as if he was seeing someone for the second time but at a different age, or before an illness had altered his aspect.

The unknown man dismounted the horse and took a few cautious steps toward the trees. His large brown cloak, made of some rough, thick material, was flapping slightly around his tall and angular frame, revealing sometimes the ordinary black robes he wore underneath. A long sword hung from his leather belt and beat upon his skinny legs as he walked.

He walked up to the archer-trees and very slowly brought a hand up to touch one of them. Harry held his breath, and so did the stranger, as his fingers brushed against the bark — but nothing happened.

The man exhaled a relieved breath and the hint of a triumphant smile flashed on his lips. However, it was with just as much caution that he slid his hands between two trunks and delicately pushed them apart, as if asking for the permission to enter rather than forcing his way in.

To Harry's bewilderment, the trees silently parted before the wizard, who let out a cry of jubilant surprise. As soon as he had sprung forward and into the core of the Forest, however, Harry knew something was horribly wrong. The trees were still and watchful, and Harry could almost taste their malicious glee at seeing the wizard jump straight into their trap; and he involuntarily shouted a word of warning.

The very first tree after the barrier got the intruder. Long flexible branches twisted their way around his waist, the roots sprang from the earth to trap his feet into place. The man screamed again, out of shock and fear this time, and drew his sword from his belt. In the back of his mind, Harry wondered for a second why he didn't use the wand that hung, too, from the leather belt, before he realised the Founders had probably warned anyone from using magic against the spirit-trees.

The great sword flashed once, twice, in the green light bathing Rosalyn's hill, and both times a branch fell to the ground, red sap running from the wounds onto the tender bark. A third branch coiled itself around the man's wrist and snapped it cleanly with a dull crack. The wizard yelled again; his sword flew from his hand and hit one archer's tree, leaving a deep gash into the bark from which more sap ran down the trunk. The sword rebounded at an angle and tumbled through the still-open gap in the barrier, out of the spirit-trees' domain.

The wizard was now screaming continuously in anguish and pain. He had been brought down to the ground, and the tree was wrapping more roots and branches all around him, mercilessly crushing bone and flesh. And as the man's pale blue eyes started bulging out of their sockets, wide with terror, as his hair, matted with earth, flew everywhere while he desperately shook his head in an effort to free himself, Harry sucked in a sharp breath in astonished recognition. The man was the Chevalier de Pallas, unfortunate Headmaster of Hogwarts, whose blackened and forgotten portrait hung in the highest corner of Professor McGonagall's office.

Shocked and sickened, Harry averted his eyes from the dying Pallas, whose screams had turned into feeble moans drowned in the excited whispering of the trees. From his perch, he looked away at the Forest extending outside the Isiames' domain. Pallas' horse had fled long ago. His sword, by some miracle — probably magic — had gone and planted itself up to the hilt into a moss-covered rock, which stood, low and mostly flat, between two stout bushes at the foot of an archer-tree.

Harry had only just the time to take in the details of the hilt of the sword, the only part of it still protruding from the rock, before his vision was lost again in a swirl of colours.

* * *

His feet hit the ground with a soft splash, and he found that, had he been real, he would have been covered in muck up to the knees. He had been transported to the muddy bank of the lake, at the eastern edge of the Forest — in fact, he quickly realised, he was precisely at the foot of Rosalyn's hill; only a thick hedge of tangled brambles and wild trees separated the lake from the core of the Forest. Cresting the highest hill of the valley, right across from him, Hogwarts castle shone in the fresh and humid light of a fine spring morning.

And striding along the opposite bank of the lake and towards the faraway gates of Hogwarts, his huge silhouette unmistakable despite the distance, was Hagrid.

Harry's heart leapt in his chest. He couldn't be back, not just yet — it was winter in his time, and this was clearly April or May. From what he could see, the war had not yet happened — so the present time was either during his own schooldays, or right before…

A branch cracked behind him and he jumped in shock, whirling round with his hand on his wand out of pure reflex; the sight that greeted him made his mouth drop.

A girl, around fifteen or sixteen, was getting off the muddy ground with a groan, having apparently just slid down the tall bank. She was dressed in her black school robes — or at least, robes that used to be black, for now they were covered in mud and dirt; one sleeve was torn and hung from her elbow and the hem of the robes was frayed. A Prefect badge glittered dully on her chest. She heaved an annoyed sigh and, taking out her wand, easily cleaned herself up with a single non-verbal spell.

"Where d'you think she is?" called a young, male voice from the ordinary trees of the Forest, far behind the girl. She started and hastily backed off to lean against the side of the hill.

"We probably scared her off… Come on, let's go back, she can't have gone so far…" answered another voice, deeper than the first.

They were barely audible, and Harry doubted the girl had been able to make out the words — although, if he were to guess from the way her lip curled in distaste, she knew perfectly well who was talking. She shook her head and, as the voices faded away, carefully bent over to remove her shoes and socks. She took them in one hand and stepped into the shallow water of the lake with a little sigh of pleasure.

A thin cloud cleared the sky at that moment, fraying away like undone knitting, and allowed a sunbeam to fall on the girl's head. Her dark red hair gleamed golden, falling thick on her shoulders on either side of a pale face in which shone two brilliant green eyes.

Harry, who had recognised her the moment he had caught sight of her, happily lost himself in the contemplation of his fifteen-years-old mother.

Lily Evans suddenly slipped and fell in the water with a little scream of shock and a great splash. After a few seconds' struggle, she managed to sit up in the mud with the water going up to her chest, coughing, spitting and — to Harry's confusion — swearing profusely. She laid a hand in the mud and leant on it as she scrambled to her knees, her shoes and socks still held precariously in her other hand.

Then she froze.

"What the hell is—" she muttered, sounding utterly puzzled. Still kneeling in the dirty water, she blindly tossed her shoes to the shore and started groping in the mud with both hands, where she had obviously felt something. One minute later, Harry's heart skipped a beat as she pulled out of the water a huge gleaming sword, with a startlingly brilliant emerald set in its golden hilt.

_Rosalyn's sword._

A completely soaked Lily held the sword horizontally in her outstretched palms, astonishment and wonderment mingling in her expression. The sun shone on the hard-edged steel, untouched by rust, and put all around the small Gryffindor girl a strange, golden-green halo.

All of sudden, to Harry's stupefaction, he was lifted from the ground as if by a huge invisible hand, and carried away from the kneeling form of his mother. He tried to fight the power pulling him away, willed himself to be back at her side — he could still see her, a petite dark shape in the muddy water — then the trees of the Forbidden Forest rushed forward and engulfed him, and he lost sight of her.

He landed rather harshly on the ground, just outside the row of archer-trees; a fact that did nothing to improve his bad mood at being tossed about all across Hogwarts like a helpless puppet. He felt he had seen enough of those trees for the rest of his life. However, predictably, when he tried walking away from them, he found his feet glued to the ground.

"…wonder who they were after," said a voice.

Harry tiredly turned around, resigned to hear yet another conversation stored in the trees' memory. The speaker was a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired boy, wearing his Hogwarts robes with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He was talking to one of his fellow student, another dark-haired boy — although this one was slightly shorter and much leaner than the first. A pair of rectangular glasses gleamed on his nose.

After meeting his mother, coming face to face with Sirius Black and James Potter was not so much of a shock as it should have been. What surprised him, however, were the grim expressions they sported. Upon seeing them so far into the Forest with their wands in their hands, Harry had expected them to be up to one of those pranks that had made the Marauders' reputation. But Sirius' dark frown and James' expression of barely contained fury were quick in dismissing this logical assumption.

"I don't know, but it'd better not be first-years again," James spat. "I'm fine with a bit of firsty-ragging, but what they did to that Collins kid last week was just sick."

"Yeah, Evans went berserk," Sirius recollected, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I swear, if Slughorn hadn't stopped her, she would've sent Mulciber on the moon with his head stuck high up his arse. Literally."

James emitted a non-committal grunt, but his forehead had creased at the mention of Lily's name.

"You don't think they were after her, don't you?" he asked. "Today, I mean."

Sirius reached up and scratched the back of his head in thought, looking uneasy. "I don't know…" he slowly said.

"I saw her getting into the Forest," James insisted. "Didn't pay it much attention, I thought she was taking a shortcut to the lake or something… But then Mulciber, Macnair and Rosier went in the Forest as well…"

"Prongs, I really don't know. She's a big girl, she can handle herself—"

"There were _three_ of them, Padfoot."

"You know what she's capable of," Sirius pointed out. "She would send any of them waltzing into the lake with both hands tied behind her back."

"Look—"

"Listen," Sirius loudly said, successfully shutting James up. "We just got our point across quite well with those three Slytherin cretins, if I am to judge from the fact they're now going back to the castle with their pants on their heads. They won't mess around with anyone as long as we keep a close watch on them. Evans can't have gone this far into the Forest — we're the only ones who ever have. The best way to make sure she's all right is to get back to the dormitory pronto and check the Map. Okay?"

James shifted his weight from one leg to the other, clearly torn between following Sirius' advice and continuing his search of Lily.

"Look," Sirius said again, and his voice had lost much of his firmness, even taking a pleading note Harry had never heard there before. "Let's get away from here, _now,_ please. I don't like it here. It makes me feel uncomfortable."

James nodded and shivered visibly as he looked round for the first time at the row of archer-trees. "Yeah, me too…"

"Okay," Sirius brightly settled. "Let's go."

And turning his back on James, he transformed into a big black dog and ran away without a backward glance. Harry was taken aback: he had expected him to at least wait for his father. The proximity of the Isiames' domain had probably affected him more deeply than what he had let show.

James, too, looked now thoroughly uncomfortable. He rubbed his arm vigorously with his left hand, as if he was cold, and tightened his grip on his wand. Yet instead of transforming straight away into a stag, he drew cautiously closer to the row of trees, all the while throwing nervous glances over his shoulder.

"Evans?" he called. "You there?"

A nearly imperceptible shiver ran along the trees, so light that Harry doubted most people would have caught it — but from the way James froze on the spot, he had.

There was a sound from behind the trees, like the echo of a human voice; to Harry's trained ear, it was nothing more than a variant of the trees' murmurs, but James looked suddenly hopeful.

"Evans? Was that you?" he called, louder.

The murmur answered him in the same way. Emboldened, although still hesitant, James covered in two steps the distance still separating him from the archer-trees, and leaning his hand on a trunk, he tried to peer through the narrow gap between two trees.

"How did you get there?" he asked, but this time he sounded more as if he was talking to himself than addressing her. Harry was relieved to see that there was doubt again on his face. He withdrew the hand that had been touching the trunk, looking uncomfortable once more.

James started walking slowly along the barrier, carefully avoiding treading the roots or scrapping his shoes on them; and occasionally he would stop and try to look through the barrier onto the Isiames' domain, and call Lily's name.

James' foot suddenly hit something and he fell forward with a screamed oath. Catching himself on all four, he looked up and rolled away with a cry of fright as a branch lashed out at him, hitting the ground precisely where he had been a second before.

"What the bloody hell is that?" James burst out, his voice going oddly high-pitched. "A row of Whomping Willows?"

He scrambled to his feet, his robes nearly as filthy as Lily's had been, his face scraped and blackened with dirt, and brought his wand up with a trembling hand. The terror was raw on his features.

But nothing was moving in the row of archer-trees. They were completely still once more, and Harry, who once again found himself able to feel their mood with a strange acuteness, sensed they were disappointed enough to give up the idea of trapping the now distrustful young wizard.

James scanned the trees suspiciously up and down, right and left, the fear fading slowly on his face to give way to an intense curiosity, even though it was clear from his wary stance that he wouldn't try to get past the barrier again. His gaze came to rest on an object on the ground, precisely where he had tripped.

"What the hell is—" he murmured.

Keeping his wand pointed at the tree, he edged closer, with careful, infinitely patient steps. When he had gone as far as he dared to, he reached out with his left hand, one eye still watching the trees closely, closed his fingers upon the object which was without doubt responsible for his fall — and pulled.

Pallas' sword came out of the rock, as effortlessly and smoothly as if it had been buried into fresh butter. It was less broad than Rosalyn's, but longer, and just as sharp, the steel equally unstained by time. On the hilt gleamed carved pentacles, the lines straight, the angles perfect.

James hurriedly stepped back, out of reach of the trees' branches, and brought the sword up to rest horizontally on his upturned hands. His face mirrored exactly Lily's wonderment and awe. As Harry and James both stared down at the sword, a ray of light found a hole in the thick foliage and fell directly upon the teenage wizard, causing the blade to glimmer harshly and wrapping its bearer in a soft white glow.

When all colours and shapes dissolved into a grey fog once more, Harry was still wondering what the hell all that was about.

* * *

Harry knew what the next dream would be as soon as he reached the ground. The jovial shouts, the cackling laughter, the running footsteps were still fresh in his memory. He saw his seventeen-years-old self, running and groaning at every step, trying to escape the Death Eaters chasing him across the Forest. He saw himself reach the archer-trees and pass through, saw the Death Eaters follow up to the river where they died in atrocious agony, saw himself stumble to the clearing where Rosalyn's tree stood and collapse there, his face finally relaxing as he sank into a deep coma.

Harry saw himself after several days, awfully pale and skinny, gauchely rolling down the hill to land in the soft mud of the lake, before standing up again to make his obstinate way back to Hogwarts. He saw, weeks later, two boys chasing one another on the very same muddy bank — Tom Riddle's handsome face contorting with rage as he was forced to hand-fight a seventeen-years-old Harry, who was pale and feverish, but propelled by rage and the certainty of having nothing to lose. That was what it had felt like, at the time.

The boys fought clumsily, using fists, feet, nails and teeth, trying to get each other's head underwater and throwing handfuls of mud into their opponent's eyes. Harry noted with some satisfaction that he was doing much of the attacking; Riddle, having never fought someone without magic, lacked the imagination that came from years of planning to give Dudley a taste of his own medicine. Unfortunately he was in far better shape than Harry, and smart enough to try and imitate Harry's fighting techniques.

Then, as Harry knew they would, the trees started singing. The war song, of which he had heard only bits during the great battle, had the same effect that the one he imagined rapid drums in the desert would have on Europeans. The trees' whispering voices rose to cadenced shouts. Even in the dream, Harry felt his heart vibrate in his chest to the savage rhythms. He was not at all surprised to see both him and Riddle sink to the ground with their arms over their heads, shuddering uncontrollably.

When the song ended, the younger Harry unsteadily got to his feet. Tom Riddle did not get up at all.

It was then that, for the last time, mist rose from the lake and wrapped itself around Harry, tearing him away from the past, while the song of the trees came to a murmured and melodious conclusion.

* * *

A/N: If some of you are confused by the last dream, I'll advise you to check this link out (copy/paste in your browser and delete the extra spaces)

www. forums. darklordpotter. net/ showpost. php? p 162516 &postcount 73


	17. The Hidden World

**A/N: Un-beta'd as of yet. I'm sorry for the long wait, I've been really busy with medschool lately (for a change). Hope you like the chapter -- we're nearing the end at last.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen****: The Hidden World**

The sensation was little more pleasant than having his head caught between the jaws of huge iron twisters slowly tightening on his temples. Harry winced and kept his eyes shut, the mere idea of sunlight causing pain to shoot through his sore skull with renewed enthusiasm. There was nothing dream-like about his splitting headache, and he was fairly certain he was back in his time at last.

He was sitting on the ground, his back against a hard but smooth surface. Silence surrounded him. Aside from his migraine, he felt very weak; his limbs seemed to have been cast into lead and when he tried to bring a hand up to his forehead, his fingers wouldn't move properly, as if they had been anesthetised. Harry abandoned the idea of trying to move. The trees' song had obviously poisoned him a little as it had made him relive the Third Kind's history; however, they were silent now, and everything seemed to be back to normal. The side effects of the song would probably subside in a few minutes.

He hoped so anyway.

Not feeling exceedingly reassured, Harry groped blindly in his pockets and around his belt for his wand, and his heart, which had been beating rather sluggishly in his chest ever since he had woken up, abruptly sped up when he failed to retrieve it.

Harry cursed in a low voice. "Where _is_ it?" he hissed, tentatively brushing his hand against the grassy ground next to him, where the wand might have fallen.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a pitiful whimper answered him, somewhere ahead of him.

"Ohhh… My _head!_"

Harry opened his eyes very slightly, holding up a hand to shield them from the gold-green light bathing the clearing he sat in. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and from under his lids he was barely able to make out a pale blurry form curled up on the grass, in the middle of the clearing.

"Greengrass?" he called in a slightly hoarse voice.

"Don't be so _loud,_ for the love of Merlin!" she wailed. "I feel like there's a Niffler inside my head trying to claw its way out…"

"Can you see my wand anywhere near you?" Harry asked, lowering his hand to cover his forehead in a reflexive gesture — as if it would stop the pain from shooting through his brain.

"I can't even open my eyes," Daphne retorted. "I can't even _move,_ it's as if I was glued to the ground!"

"Never mind then," Harry mumbled. "Don't move, don't talk, and just try to rest, all right?"

Blessed silence fell again; Harry tried to push his worry out of his mind and reclined his head against the tree he was leaning on, doing his best to take calm, deep breaths. It seemed to help. A tiny little bit.

Daphne's voice rose after a few minutes, slightly muffled, as if she was hiding her face in her hands.

"Did you see the same thing as I did?"

"I don't know, what did you see?" Harry asked.

"A Queen," Daphne said. "A battle. People dying. The Founders. More people dying. A kid that looked like you, but with rectangular glasses. And then you, running, and wrestling another man."

"Sounds like the same thing I saw," Harry laconically said.

"What was all that? Who were these people? They kept talking about wizards as if they weren't wizards themselves, yet they used magic and—"

"Greengrass, would you mind shutting up for a minute? I'll explain when I'm able to see anything without feeling as if I was being stabbed in the eye, okay?"

An annoyed sigh answered him, followed by a rustling of material as Daphne shifted on the ground. He tuned out those slight noises as well, concentrating solely on his own breathing and heartbeats, until he reached a state of complete, blank calmness. His tiredness, his headache, and the unhealthy heaviness that had seized his limbs, everything was patiently washed away as his body reacted and adapted…

"I'm cold."

Harry raised both arms above his head, hands joined, and conscientiously stretched; then he placed his hands behind his neck and tilted his head backwards as far as he could, his eyes still tightly shut, his back arching slightly from the surface he had been sitting against.

"I'm really cold!"

"Really?" Harry distractedly asked.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not."

His reply seemed to have disconcerted Daphne, for it was several seconds before she spoke up again.

"Excuse me," she said, sounding quite vexed, "I'm only wearing my shirt and underwear, I'm still dripping wet from the river we crossed, therefore I'm _cold._"

"And I don't have my wand with me," Harry crossly retorted. "So there's nothing I can do for you at the moment."

He had finished stretching; his limbs were fully under his control once more, and his headache had considerably subsided. Harry got his legs under him and carefully straightened up to his full height, and only then did he risk opening his eyes again.

The world was a light, mostly green blur. Squinting, he managed to make out Daphne's pale body sprawled on the ground, several feet ahead of him. Directly in front of him, a small glassy object that caught the sunlight was tangled into the long blades of grass. Harry took two steps forward and swooped down, picking it from the grass — it was his glasses.

He sighed in relief as his vision cleared, and immediately scanned the clearing for signs of his wand; but it was nowhere to be seen. Daphne was curled up in foetal position, her arms covering her blonde head, her bare legs folded almost to her chest. Her damp shirt stuck to her skin, as did the fine material of her knickers, the pale flesh of her round buttocks visible through the soaked-through white cotton imprinted with little blue rosebuds. Harry blinked and willed himself to keep his gaze attached to the back of her neck.

"Here, come on, Greengrass," he said as he gently tugged on one of her arms. "Get up, we need to get out of here."

She groaned, but resignedly unfolded her legs and lowered her arms — thus granting Harry an unimpeded view of her dark-brown bra and soft-curved figure, hardly hidden by the damp shirt clinging to her flesh; yet again Harry was forced to focus on her forehead — the motion exposing her pale face to the gold-green light.

"Ouch!" she cried out, covering her eyes again. "My head—"

"I know, a side-effect of the song, probably," Harry said. "Here — get up, slowly… You don't need to open your eyes, I'm guiding you…"

"Where are we going?" Daphne asked as she stumbled next to him, one of her hands holding his tightly — which caused him to experience again the thrill of retrieving his sense of touch — while the other tugged self-consciously on the hem of her shirt in a futile attempt to cover her bare thighs.

"First, back to the river," he said. "Your robes are probably still there, and that's where I must've dropped my wand, too. And my shoes," he added as he noticed his bare feet for the first time.

At the mention of the river, Daphne shivered and seemed to hesitate. Harry thought he knew what she was thinking about.

"They were just three dead Death Eaters, Daphne," he said in a soothing tone. "Okay, they were intimidating and we sort of panicked, but really they were just three sets of rotting bones. You won't have to look at them."

The rest of their trip was eventless; Harry found his shoes about halfway to the river, and Daphne's clothes were not far ahead, lying in a messy bundle on the side of the path. However they had to go up to the very shore of the river to find Harry's wand, half buried in the mud. He picked it up without looking at the other bank, where the three cadavers lay imprisoned in the trees' roots, and quickly performed a drying charm on Daphne and himself. They got dressed.

"Where do we go now?" Daphne asked, pushing her hair away from her face to reveal two grey-green eyes staring enquiringly up at Harry.

"Same way I went last time," Harry replied. "We follow the river until it goes downhill and then we'll find ourselves at the lake. That's a good hiding place, if a little uncomfortable."

"That's… where I saw you fighting the other man, right?" she said with a frown.

"Yeah."

"Who was he?"

"Voldemort," Harry shortly replied, and ignoring her gasp of surprise he added, "Hurry along, Greengrass."

For once, she didn't protest and hastened to catch up with him. They started walking side by side on the narrow shore of the river, following its flow to where it opened into the lake. After a little while, Daphne cautiously spoke up again, reminding him that he had promised to give her explanations.

Harry started talking in a low voice, telling her of his flight in the Forest, with the Death Eaters on his heels, of the loss of sleep and sensations that had ensued; he told her about Ron, Luna and the Head Healer being shot with arrows when they had been close to discover something about his condition; he related the events that had followed — his coma and his recovery, his long searches in the Hogwarts library, his discovery of Pallas' fate, the wolves he had seen in Hogsmeade and then again at Frog End, where they had changed back into women.

He told her everything, except that he had been bitten by a werewolf and could transform into a white wolf. He was strangely reluctant to talk about this part of the tale — his transformations had been moments of such fierce, pure joy, that he didn't feel comfortable about speaking of it. It wasn't any other weird ability of his; it was part of himself in a deeply intimate way, so that he could only share it with his closest and dearest. And Daphne wasn't part of them.

"… Since the Department of Mysteries didn't seem to see the Third Kind with a very good eye, I had to follow the spy and silence him. That's why we had to get out of your house and come here — they're probably after the pair of us now, and this is the safest place from wizards that I know of."

"Why didn't we go straight to the lake?" Daphne asked, frowning. "You just said we'll be safe too, on this side of the lake. Why did you take me to the clearing?"

"I hadn't planned beyond getting past the barrier of trees," Harry admitted. "Then after we got across the river, I didn't have the time to think at all. I'll remind you that we ran like maniacs to the clearing."

"Yes, true…" Daphne fell in thoughtful silence for a few seconds before she spoke up again. "Do you think they did it on purpose?"

"Who did what on purpose?"

"The trees. Think they scared us away from the river and into the clearing, so that they could sing their song to us?"

Harry stopped and watched her in wonderment. "You know what," he said pensively. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were right… First time I got here, I could barely see because of the Cruciatus Curses, and I had the impression something was guiding me to the clearing."

"They were taking you to a place where they could cure you," Daphne guessed; colour was rising in her cheeks and excitement made her eyes shine.

"Just like they lured Pallas past the barrier so that they could kill him more easily," Harry completed.

They stared at each other, their eyes widened in sudden comprehension, and identical grins slowly spread across both their faces — then they burst out laughing. Harry wouldn't have been able to tell what was so funny about the situation; maybe they were still a bit intoxicated and giddy from the trees' song, so that coming together and at the same time to the same conclusion struck them as tremendously comical. The fact remained that he was holding his sides, and tears were rolling down Daphne's cheeks as she hiccoughed, breathless from laughing so hard.

"Okay," Harry wheezed, struggling to be serious again. "We have a bit of a way to go still. Better get going."

Still giggling, Daphne followed him good-naturedly, and their journey ended much more pleasantly than it had started. Their explosion of laughter had dissipated the lingering influence of the tree's song, as well as the tension that had been tightening their nerves all through their flight into the Forest; and now, alone in the quiet Forest, they found themselves glad of each other's company. They chatted joyously as they walked, swinging back and forth their linked hands, and for the first time their conversation started to dwell on subjects other than their belonging to the Third Kind.

"… And you've been running a day nursery ever since you got out of Hogwarts?"

"Yeah," Daphne said with a shrug. "I had a lot of experience in babysitting already, but I had no idea watching after kids all day would be so _trying._ Magical kids screaming and bouncing and blubbering and needing to be fed, changed, amused, put to bed, without mentioning the bloody accidental magic. Once one of those brats turned my hair purple. I had to ask my sister to change it back, she's a much better witch than I am. Hey," she added, her eyes going wide, "that's odd. You and I can do magic a bit like wizards, even if we're not — I mean, I can use my wand, even if I'm lousy at magic in general… But you're a good wizard, and so's my sister! Isn't she supposed to be Third Kind as well?"

"Not necessarily," a rasping voice said from right behind them.

Harry started and wheeled around at once, wand pointed in front of him, while Daphne let out a little scream.

An old woman stood before them, a smile on her lips. She was tall, skinny, and excessively wrinkled. The mud of the river had slightly stained the hem of her long grey robes and the tip of the staff she leant on — a long, big, scarred piece of gnarled wood that looked several decades old — but she showed no sign of exertion; she didn't quite look as if she had been following them, but rather seemed to have been standing there for a long time.

"I do not think there is a need for this, young man," the stranger said, touching lightly the tip of Harry's wand with her staff. "What harm could an old woman like me do to you?"

"I know who you are," Harry retorted. "I've seen you before. I know what you can do with one of those." He jerked his chin in the direction of the staff.

The woman drew back her staff and leant on it with both hands, emphasising her stature slightly slumped by age; this, combined with the benign smile playing on her lips and the amused twinkle animating her eyes, gave her the harmless appearance of a beloved great-aunt. But Harry had now recognised the wise, deep blue gaze he had seen in Hogsmeade and in Frog End. The silver mane of hair tied back into a loose bun was the exact same shade of grey as the rich fur of the blue-eyed Wolf he had met twice. The picture was so vivid in his mind, he couldn't possibly be fooled by the woman's apparent frailness.

"I assumed as much," she said. "However, I did not expect you to see me as a threat. Are you not one of us?"

"You are Third Kind," Harry started.

"Actually I am an _Isiame_," she interrupted. "Third Kind is a wizarding term. They always tended to use euphemisms in order to avoid saying the true name of those they feared, did they not?"

The reference to Voldemort was too blatant for Harry to miss it. He opened his mouth to answer — by contrariness, he was rather tempted to defend wizards from the Isiame's condescendence; however, he found himself unable to find the right words. Sadly, she was not wrong.

"You are one of _them!_" Daphne chipped in, very nearly knocking Harry out of her way in her haste to get closer to the Isiame. "How did you—"

The old Isiame lifted a hand, silencing Daphne with an apologetic smile. "One moment, young lady. I am very much looking forward to answering your questions, however Mr. Potter and myself aren't quite done talking yet."

She turned her gaze to Harry once more. "I told you," she said softly, "that we would see each other again, did I not, Mr. Potter? Now is the time. You must have questions for me. I am ready to answer them. I am surprised to see you so defiant; did you not consider yourself as belonging to the same kind as Miss Greengrass? Did you not go to considerable extents to protect your secret? I am here to take you where you can meet your peers at last. Was this not what you wanted?"

"How did you find me?"

"Why, I did not. I heard the trees singing from my home last night, and assumed a young Isiame, ignorant of the danger, had slipped into the Sanctuary and was now prisoner of the trees' Song. I came here to retrieve them. It was a pleasant surprise to find out that the trees sang to no other than yourself and Miss Greengrass; you were so engrossed in your conversation that you walked by me without even noticing the old woman sitting on a stump." A humorous spark came to light up her eyes.

"You mean, people of your kind often come here to listen to the trees?"

"Oh no, we don't," the Isiame said. "We know how toxic the Song can be. But sometimes, youngsters ignoring they are not wizards leave the school and go wandering into the Forest. I find them, and take them home."

"Home? To Hogwarts?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Of course not," the old woman scornfully said. "I take them to our home. Their home."

"Where _is_ that?" Daphne interjected; she had again the eager, almost greedy expression that put Harry ill at ease every time he saw it on her face.

"Just around the corner," the old Isiame said, smiling at the young girl's enthusiasm. "Here, let us not waste more time."

And upon these words, she resolutely set off towards the mouth of the river, passing between them without a backward glance. Daphne followed without hesitation.

"Daphne!" Harry hissed. "I'm not sure—"

"Oh come on," Daphne shot at him over her shoulder, without doing so much as slowing down. "She's like us, I know it, I can feel it! What's your problem?"

"My problem is, I don't trust any stranger walking up to me and saying, 'Hello, I can answer any question you can think of, and by the way I incidentally want to show you some unknown place I'm sure you'll really like!'" Harry testily replied in an undertone.

"You said you've met her before—"

"We didn't exactly have the time to sit around a coffee and get to know each other at that time."

Daphne briefly stopped and turned round to answer him. "I trust her, and I'm following her. You do whatever you want."

Harry didn't have the time to react before she spun on her heel again and hurried to catch up with the old Isiame, who did not seem to have paid any attention to their argument.

Harry wavered for a few seconds before cursing loudly and setting off after the two women.

"So you're saying my sister isn't necessarily an Isiame?" Daphne was asking when he caught up.

"Indeed. Isiames aren't much different from Wizards under this aspect; there are Muggle-born Isiames, and Wizard-born ones, like you. Most of them probably have an Isiame in their ancestry, just like most Muggle-born Wizards have remote magical ancestors."

"But… My family's pure-blood, though…"

"How old is your family?"

"Few centuries?"

"Mankind is thousands of years old, child."

There was a short pause.

"So you're saying I always was an Isiame?" Daphne said uncertainly.

"Of course. You were born one."

"And Potter is, too?"

The old woman stopped and turned round, locking gazes with Harry, who was walking a few steps behind them. Harry slowed down to a halt as well; the woman's scrutiny felt like an aggression, as if it was baring his soul to her eyes — not unlike what Dumbledore's piercing gaze had felt, years ago. He gritted his teeth and held her gaze, unconsciously jutting out his chin in a defiant sort of way.

"Strong Isiame blood runs in Mr. Potter's veins," she said in a thoughtful voice. "That cannot be questioned. But unlike yours, his power has not matured yet — and I doubt he knows the sheer extent of it."

"He looks a bit like the Queen we saw in the dream," Daphne blurted out. Harry's eyes snapped to her: she wasn't looking at him, but stared avidly at the old woman as if attempting to burn a hole in the side of her wrinkled face. "Sort of pale, dark hair, green eyes…"

"An ingenuous idea," the Isiame replied, tearing her gaze from Harry at last to smile benignly at Daphne. "But I'm afraid Mr. Potter mostly inherited his looks from his father, whom I am sure did not have a drop of Isiame blood in his veins. Besides, the Queen you saw died many centuries ago… Physical resemblances are unlikely to survive this long."

"Oh," Daphne said. Harry glanced at her; her face wore an odd, almost pained expression, mouth set in a rigid line, nostrils flaring, and eyelids fluttering quickly as if she was trying hard to gain control over her mobile features and hide her emotions. He frowned. She looked… relieved, and a little ashamed.

Daphne caught him staring at her and glared, colour creeping up her neck to flush her pale cheeks, then resolutely wheeled around and strode away. The Isiame looked from Harry to Daphne and back again, her thin lips stretching in a smile that was a little too shrewd to Harry's liking, then resumed her walk with a little nod in Harry's direction.

Harry made sure his wand was within immediate reach and followed.

They did not need to walk much longer before they reached the mouth of the river. It turned murky where it mingled with the water of the lake, its currents forming small whirlpools before being smoothed into the glassy, flat surface of the great lake. The last two trees bowed over the mouth of the river on either bank, like the two pillars of an archway of live wood. Here, the green-gold light dimmed, and beyond the archway obscurity still reigned.

The old Isiame lifted a skinny, gnarled hand and gripped a large branch of the tree that stood as the right pillar of the archway.

"Be careful, the ground is slippery," she said.

Then she raised her staff, firmly planted it in the soft ground of the river shore, and started advancing in the middle of the river as if she was trying to cross to the other bank, still holding the branch over her head for support; the frail tree slowly bent as her weight pulled it towards the centre of the river — and at each step, she sank a little deeper into the dirty, whirling water.

"Wait," Harry called, instinctively taking two steps forward, "it's too deep, you're going to—"

He hadn't finished his sentence when the old woman let go of the branch, which immediately swung upwards with a great rustling of leaves, and abruptly disappeared underwater as if she had fallen into a crevasse.

Harry swore and kicked off his shoes again, pulling out his wand as he ran into the water. The currents immediately gripped his legs like long, powerful hands, and after a few moments of furious struggle, he felt with a thrill of dread that he was losing his balance. In the single second that his fall lasted, he threw his hands out in an instinctive, desperate search for something, anything to cling to and allow him to escape drowning…

His right hand found the branch of the pillar-tree.

And the currents left him alone.

Harry found himself standing in the midst of foaming whirlpools with as little inconvenience as if he was sitting in his bath. The water flowed _round_ his legs instead of rushing into them and trying to knock him down, and the ground was as smooth, firm and solid as polished stone.

"Potter?" Daphne's voice called behind him. He heard a splashing sound.

"Don't touch the water!" Harry shot at her. He twisted his body around to see her without having to move his feet — he did not dare risk to break his fragile balance again. "Try to get hold of a branch first — that's right, catch it, and _then only_ try to join me!"

"What does the tree do?" Daphne asked as she carefully progressed in the water, frightful eyes staring down at the swirling currents, her right hand gripping the branch so hard Harry could see the knuckles turning white.

"Protect us against the current, I ima—"

The rest of Harry's sentence was lost in another startled oath: directly in front of him, the old Isiame's head had appeared again, laid on the surface of the river like a long-haired, wrinkled egg on a liquid table.

"Well?" the old woman asked, the lines at the corners of her sparkling eyes betraying her amusement. "Don't take too long, youngsters, the gate won't stay open for you until tomorrow."

And then she vanished again underwater.

Harry and Daphne exchanged a single baffled glance before silently resuming their walk. They were going down what felt like immersed stone stairs, heading towards the point where the old Isiame had vanished: the exact centre of the river, under the middle of the archway — right where the longest branch of the right pillar-tree ended and this of the left pillar-tree started.

Just before he reached that point, Harry felt the tension in the arm that held on the tree branch increase to a barely sufferable level; he redoubled his grip, wincing at the discomfort, but the tree branch was slowly slipping from between his fingers while his extended arm felt as if it was about to be dislodged at the shoulder. He had to let go.

He half-turned again to look at Daphne. She had halted when he had stopped moving, and was staring at him with wide, non too reassured eyes. Harry swallowed.

"See you in a minute," he said.

Then he took a deep breath, held it in, and released the branch.

The water, which had been going up to the middle of his chest, surged upwards and closed over his head as he fell in the river's dark-green depths — then his feet fell on solid stone and the water abruptly washed off him, falling back behind him with the great rushing sound of a wave breaking on a beach.

He took off his glasses and wiped them dry on one corner of his shirt. When his vision cleared at last, he was able to see he was standing in a pool of water maybe five inches deep, his clothes quite dry despite the dive he had just gone through. The rough, dark-grey wall of a cave curved above him, the ceiling just high enough to allow him to stand without bumping his head on the unpolished stone. He looked behind him — there was no sign of the gate he had just passed. Just a shallow, glass-like extent of water, and the bottom of the cave.

"You might want to step out of the pool, Mr. Potter. You're going to catch a cold."

Harry's head snapped round at the sound of the Isiame's voice; she leant heavily on her staff at the edge of the pond, before the mouth of the cave, silhouetted against the paling sky. Harry surveyed the staff with a wary eye and passed his wand from his left hand to his right.

The water started bubbling with a low rumbling sound directly next to him, and he repressed a start, instinctively stepping away from the disturbance and out of the pond; the next second the water of the whole pool rose in a white geyser, as thick and tall as a grown man.

Harry's eyebrows shot up in sudden recognition, and he turned to the silent Isiame.

"An Elemental Gate?" he asked.

"Indeed."

"That's… fairly rare," Harry noted, frowning. "I thought there were only three recorded in the whole world, including the Earth Gate leading into Hogsmeade Valley."

"There are not many," the Isiame agreed. "And all are Isiame-made. This one is the most recent."

"'Isiame-made'? Wait—"

The geyser suddenly broke and the water fell back into the pond with a thunderous noise, cutting him off.

"Ah, Miss Greengrass," the old Isiame said as a quite dishevelled Daphne came into view, standing precisely where the geyser had been. "Welcome, welcome. Please step out of the pool, and follow me."

She turned around and took a few steps towards the mouth of the cave. Daphne slowly walked out of the pool, her steps uncertain. Passing the Elemental Gate seemed to have shaken her confidence a bit and she sought Harry's eyes as she advanced, as if wanting to know his opinion. Harry, who had not moved, shook his head slightly as he met her gaze, and she halted.

"Where do you want to take us?" Harry called at the retreating Isiame.

"To my home," the Isiame said without turning round. "If I am honest with you, I must say I would greatly enjoy a good breakfast, and I thought you would like to sit and eat with me."

"Hold on a second," Harry snapped.

Was it his sudden change of tone? For the first time, the old Isiame seemed to lose her everlasting serenity; she halted and turned to face them, her face a hard, cold mask.

"Mr. Potter, your hesitations, although understandable, already made us waste a lot of time."

"Then stop wasting time and tell me already _where_ we are, and where we're going," Harry brusquely retorted.

The Isiame narrowed her eyes at him, her long, gnarled fingers clenching more tightly around her staff — then she had a gesture that took Harry by surprise: straightening up, she lifted her staff and threw it at him with startling strength.

Harry caught the staff out of sheer reflexes. It was just thick enough to allow him to wrap his hand around it, and about as long as he was tall. As soon as his fingers closed on the wood, an electrical wave surged through his hand and up his arm, the sensation similar to what he felt when he touched Daphne — only much, much stronger. His sense of touch returned to him immediately, his skin erupting in gooseflesh as he was struck full-force by the cold of the cave.

He also became very aware that he was barefoot — until Daphne discreetly passed him the shoes she had apparently picked up before following him through the gate. He nodded to thank her and hurriedly put them on.

"There," the Isiame said, claiming his attention again. "You are armed. I am not. That way, maybe you will find it easier to trust me. Now, if you would be kind enough to follow me, I will answer your questions en route."

And without another word, she wheeled about and walked out of the cave, her back straight and her head held high despite the absence of her support.

Harry and Daphne exchanged another glance before following.

"Give me that staff," Daphne whispered, as they emerged out of the cave in the bleary light of dawn.

"Why?"

"I want to hold it."

"I'm the Auror," Harry retorted out of the corner of his mouth. "Unless you're better at duelling than I am, I'm holding the staff."

"Potter—"

"So what is this place, exactly?" Harry called to the Isiame, thus effectively covering Daphne's indignant spluttering.

The old woman slowed down to allow them to catch up with her. "As you can see, we're in the mountains," she said, gesturing around.

Harry's eyes followed the motion of her hand. The cave they had just left was a black hole in the rocky face of a high mountain, and the road they were following, instead of leading them down, crept horizontally along the mountain's flank. There was no vegetation at all. The landscape was a desolate succession of sharp, naked rocks, deep crevasses, patches of snow and slides of rubble. The horizon was blocked by jagged summits, the pure white of their snow-covered slopes standing out sharply in the lingering obscurity, drawing against the still-dark sky a pattern that looked vaguely familiar to Harry.

"Those are the Hogwarts mountains," he whispered out loud, eyes wide open in wondering.

"Indeed," the old Isiame said. "I trust you remember the Queen Cassiopeia, who led the battle against the Founders?… She was a woman of power, but so young, and so foolish… She had a friend, a servant named Rosalyn, who saved her life by impersonating her at the end of the battle, while the Queen herself fled. Rosalyn was killed, of course, and Cassiopeia became obsessed with the idea of finding her body and burying it herself. She refused to leave the mountains for a safer location, and she even wasted many of her servants' lives by ordering them to dig the Elemental Gate we just passed."

"But Elemental Gates are not human-made," Harry contradicted her. "They are as old as the Earth itself—"

"So the wizards believe. Since they were never able to explain them, they decided the Gates were natural phenomena, perhaps born from conflicting magical forces when the Earth shaped itself. They found only three of them in the whole world, but they are a dozen. And yes, they are Isiame-made." The old woman closed her eyes for a second, an expression of great weariness washing over her wrinkled face. "They are the product of Isiames pooling their power to create a gate from rock to rock, or from lake to waterway. The Fire Gates and Air Gates are too dangerous and instable, and very few of them were made. Many of the Queen's servants died to make this particular Water Gate. The Queen herself wasted all of her power and died from exhaustion, because she attempted to create in a few months what usually takes decades to make."

"But _why?_" Daphne blurted out.

"As I said, she was foolish." The old Isiame grew sombre. "My ancestor was one of those who followed her here. The story has been passed from one generation to the next, for the past thousand years."

"Why did you stay here after the Queen died?" Harry asked.

"The Water Gate was finished at last," the Isiame said. "And we discovered what happened to the fallen Isiames' souls. We listened to the Song of the Trees. And we realised our place was still here, at Hogwarts; that is where our ancient power lingers; that is where the Trees' sanctuary is; and most of all, that is where young Isiames, thinking they are magical, come and are taught the wizards' ways before they venture into the Forest and learn the truth… We're almost there."

The road narrowed down to a path as it winded around sharp rocks while keeping a vertiginous precipice on its right side, and they all had to lean on the almost vertical wall on their left, rubble rolling under their feet and tumbling down the chasm as they progressed. Harry was so concentrated on where he put his feet that he didn't notice the Isiame was slowing down until he nearly bumped into her; he adjusted his pace to their guide's and cautiously raised his head to peer over her shoulder.

Directly ahead of them, the path twisted around a sharp ridge of the mountain and vanished out of sight behind it.

"What's around the corner?" he asked.

"Home," she said. "Mind your step now."

"Only _now_?" Daphne muttered furiously behind Harry. "What are we going to do next, walk on a rope over the precipice?"

"Spare your breath, Greengrass. You're going to need it."

As it turned out, Harry found his own advice quite useful, as rounding the ridge of the mountain required all his attention; he ended up having Daphne go before him so he could watch her back. The former Slytherin obviously wasn't used to walking in the mountains and he didn't fancy having to stop her fall with a spell. In contrast, the Isiame walked with the assurance of someone who knew the pathway like the back of their hand. By the time they all found themselves safe and sound on the other side of the ridge, the night had been completely washed off the sky, the heavy clouds rolling overhead letting through a dull greyish light.

"Welcome home," the Isiame said.

They were gazing at what looked like a huge, wide crevice carved into the mountain range by a giant's axe. The inner walls of it were smooth, polished stone, and sculpted into the façades of countless houses that were literally piled on top of each other. Everywhere Harry looked, from where the feet of the mountains were lost in misty shadows to where the summits gleamed with fresh snow, windows gaped, lintels topped elegant doorframes, narrow gutters ran down the vertical walls. Everything seemed to have been carved out of the mountains themselves and blended with their sides.

It would have looked more like a bizarre work of art than anything else, had it not buzzed with life. People were bustling about on the narrow pathways separating every line of houses from the one it topped, pushing heaps of accumulated snow towards the gutters — and though Harry couldn't clearly see what they were doing to it, the snow suddenly turned into water that cascaded into the drains, all the way down the mountains. Others were leaning out of the windows and chatting with each other, and only rarely did the words that reached Harry's ears sound like English.

"A city of Isiames?" he asked.

"_The_ Isiame City," their guide softly corrected. "Here are gathered the world's remaining Isiames; those we were able to find and convince that their abilities were a blessing, and not a burden, at least. Shall we?"

She led them into the city, along one of the narrow paths that was being cleared of the snow piling up on it. Long ropes stretched over the front walls of the houses, forming a much-welcome handrail they could cling to while advancing, and on their right, at the edge of the precipice, a low wall run along the path, cresting the roofs of the houses immediately below them.

The inhabitants of the Isiame City joyously called over to the old Isiame as she passed by them, and many watched Harry and Daphne with benevolent interest — although Harry couldn't help but notice that a lot of them frowned as they caught sight of him and squinted in an attempt to get a better look at his face. He stiffened and kept his eyes averted from theirs, pretending to take exaggerated caution in his walking.

"This is my house," the old Isiame said, halting at last.

They had reached the largest house of all, situated in the very middle of the city. Wide stone steps led them up to a tall porch, shadowing a door made out of very, very old oak. The Isiame pushed it open, and it swung soundlessly on its hinges to let them in.

They stepped inside what looked like the nave of a cathedral. Dozens of wide stone pillars supported the weight of a ceiling lost in shadows. Each pillar bore sculptures of human faces, horses, swords and arrows, valleys and forests, mountains and oceans. The warm, moving light of several great fires lit in chimneys lining the walls, projected flickering shadows on the carved figures, giving the illusion that they were alive. Tall windows pierced the front wall, letting in the grey winter light that cast their shadows on a floor polished by the trampling of thousands of feet over hundreds of years.

"That's… homey," Harry said.

The Isiame grinned. "This place was built to reunite the whole Isiame people in case of emergency. We could not do so in a hut, Mr. Potter."

"The city's almost empty, though," Harry remarked in a low voice. "Out of the hundreds of houses outside, I saw only a few dozens that looked as if they were inhabited. There aren't enough people to fill half of this room."

"Yet there are so many more Isiames scattered all over the world," said a breathless, eager voice somewhere on his right. "All they need to accept their nature and embrace their powers, is a true leader."

Harry and Daphne whirled around in the same startled motion; standing beside a pillar, silent and barely noticeable in the stripped pattern of shadows and lights of the hall, was another old woman. She was as wrinkled and skinny as their guide and leant on a staff similar to that Harry was still carrying — but the contrast between her expression and the other Isiame's could not have been greater. Where their blue-eyed guide looked infinitely patient and serene, the newcomer's face glowed with hope and barely suppressed excitement, and a kind of avidity that was unpleasantly familiar to Harry.

"Welcome, Son of the last Knight," she whispered. "I am delighted to see you again."

"Sao," their guide interrupted, a cold edge to her voice.

"Eunice," the newcomer replied with a slight bow of her head, making Harry aware, for the first time, that he had never thought of asking their guide her name.

"Since you are here, would you mind calling one of our apprentices to take care of Miss Greengrass?" the blue-eyed Eunice asked. "I would like to talk to Mr. Potter alone. And _you have your own duties to attend to._"

Sao's lips tightened in a thin line, and for a moment it looked as if she was about to argue, but eventually she bowed again to the pair of them and turned on her heel, beckoning Daphne with one gnarled finger as she walked away.

Daphne threw at Harry a very odd look before following the Isiame.

"The last Knight?" Harry murmured, as soon as both women were out of earshot. He was only vaguely aware that his fingers had tightened around the staff until the wood bit painfully into his flesh.

Eunice closed her eyes. "Sao is impatient by nature," she said softly. "I did not intend to talk to you about this before tomorrow at least. You have enough to cope with as it is. But the harm is done, I imagine… The last Knight, as I am sure you have already guessed, was your mother."

Harry's head spun. He had been suspecting a connection between his mother and the Isiame people after what he had seen in the Trees' dream, but the idea of her being a _Knight,_ which he supposed meant a _soldier_ of the Isiames, simply didn't fit in the picture of the young heroin of the first war against Voldemort. She had been a witch. She had married a wizard. She had served the wizards' cause and had even died for it…

He realised for the first time the sheer extent of the secrets he had been uncovering. The Isiames' mystery was including more than his own identity and power, it was spreading around him like a poisonous gas and tainted the memory of the dead — the Founders, and now his parents. For the first time, Harry wished he had left alone the mystery of the Third Kind. It contradicted too much of what he believed in, and now it threatened to alter the pure, beautiful image he had of his mother. He wished—

Harry ground his teeth and forcibly shoved his doubts to the back of his mind. It was too late to back off; even if he did, he knew he would keep wondering and worrying about it. There was nothing to it, he had to finish what he had started.

He raised his head to see the Isiame Eunice watching him thoughtfully, her head tilted slightly to one side.

"Is that why I saw her pick up Rosalyn's sword in my dream?" he asked, in a carefully neutral tone.

"Indeed," she said in the same even voice. "It was the only precaution Cassiopeia agreed to take in case we lost the war; she enchanted the weapons we used so that every time someone would find a fallen Isiame's weapon, they would become a Knight. And so, ever since Hogwarts fell into the wizards' hands, Knights have guarded the entry to our city, kept it safe and secret. At the Knight's death the weapon go back to the Isiame people. There is a room full of them in this house, if you'd like to see it."

Harry nodded curtly. "Yes, I'd like to see it. Please."

She bowed her head in answer. "Follow me."

She led him through the great hall and into several rooms, most of them cold, silent and deserted. They climbed stairs and walked through long and wide corridors. Outside the hall there were no windows, and the place was lit by small balls of glass in which white little flames flickered, apparently without a need for combustible. Harry tried to remember his path — left, right, right, left, up the stairs, right, left — but the task was hopeless. The house was immense and seemed to take up the entire width of the mountain, and he suspected there were many hidden connections between it and the other houses of the city.

At last they stopped before a door made out of solid oak. It was the only door he had seen inside the house, since the rooms usually were connected by narrow archways merely closed by thick curtains.

"I will need my staff," Eunice said, turning to him.

Harry hesitated.

"If you fear that you might lose your sense of touch again, don't worry; you are inside the Isiame city. You are surrounded by more elemental energy than you would ever need to replace the amount you lost during your duel with the heir of Slytherin, and which cost you one of your senses." The Isiame gave him a thin, weary smile. "Here, you are perfectly healthy again."

"How do you know I—" Harry broke off. The Isiames had been following him for a long time; he had met them too often as Wolves for it to be a coincidence. No doubt they had learnt a lot about him, his infirmity included.

_Here, you are perfectly healthy again._

The words echoed in his head. Harry lifted the staff off the ground and threw it to its owner, who caught it with practiced ease.

And his sense of touch, although it was slightly dimmed, remained.

"Thank you," Eunice said, then turning her back on him she used the staff to rap on the door twice. It creaked open, and she went inside without a backward glance; he followed.

The room was much longer than it was wide, and it stretched ahead of them like a closed-off portion of corridor, lit by several glass balls hovering near the arched ceiling. Life-size portraits lined up on the walls. Under each of them, a weapon rested on the floor, gathering dust. There were quivers and bows, swords, axes, hatchets, daggers, spears, and several other strange-shaped weapons Harry couldn't name.

"The most ancient portraits are near the door," Eunice said, pulling him out of his contemplation. "Mind your step, some of those blades could still be sharp enough to cut off one of your toes."

They set off, slowly passing one portrait after the other, Eunice whispering in his ear stories about each of the Knights. There were men and women, the old and the young, the poor and the rich. According to Eunice there had been little more than two Knights every century, and all of them had died doing their duty — most tortured and killed by wizards. Harry felt increasingly uncomfortable as they neared the furthest extremity of the room.

"And this," Eunice said, halting at last in front of the last portrait, "was the last Knight."

Harry gazed up at the portrait. It was her, all right. Lily Evans had been painted in her Hogwarts uniform, leaning against a tree of the Forbidden Forest, holding with both hands the hilt of Rosalyn's naked sword, the tip of which rested on the ground at her feet. She looked grave and stared in the distance, her green eyes wide and thoughtful. She could not have been older than sixteen. A knot painfully constricted Harry's chest.

"She was very young," Eunice said gently. "And very brave."

"Her eyes—" Harry stopped talking and cleared his throat loudly. "I mean, I saw the Queen's eyes, and they were—"

"Your mother had the Royal Family's eyes," the Isiame interrupted. "So do you. But she was no descendant of the Queen… and she was no Isiame."

Harry turned to look at her, puzzled. "What? What do you mean, 'she was no Isiame'? I thought she was your last Knight?"

Eunice inclined her head. "Very few of our Knights actually were Isiames, Mr. Potter. As I said, they found themselves with the duty and the power to protect our people, as soon as they laid a hand on an Isiame's weapon. Most of our Knights were Muggles. Wizards usually avoided the places where Isiames had dwelt or fought, and where they might have found their weapons, but we did have a few of their kind as well. Your mother is one of them."

"Why does she have the 'Royal Family's eyes' then?"

"I don't know," the Isiame said. "She was certainly born with the predisposition of giving birth to Isiames — you are evidence of this; but why she was graced with a physical feature of our Queens, is a mystery I have been trying to elucidate for a long time. So far, alas, I have no answer."

Harry turned back to the portrait and stared hard at it, absorbing all the meticulously painted details of his mother's aspect, her stance, her expression. His feeling of unease grew as he focused on her unsmiling face, and with a pang of anguish, he wondered if she had ever regretted picking up the ancient sword in the mud of the lake.

"We are usually able to contact most of our Knights once they have found a weapon, so as to explain their duty to them," Eunice murmured. Harry suspected she had been watching his expression, and he wondered how much of his thoughts she had guessed. "But we never got the opportunity to talk to your mother. Her duty was stronger than even her own survival instincts, so she found herself alarmed at the idea that people would get too close to finding the entrance of the city, without even _knowing_ that the spot she was defending was the entrance of a city. She got scared and worried without understanding why, all the time. It must have been such a burden to her."

"And you couldn't talk to her," Harry said, his voice a little hoarse. "You managed to meet me twice before today and you were never able to get her on her own?"

"Unfortunately that's right. The first war against Slytherin's heir was raging, and the wizard Dumbledore kept a close eye on all of his students. After she left Hogwarts, she married a young wizard, and they were soon hidden away. We were unable to find them."

Harry nodded, more to himself than to her. The Fidelius Charm had indubitably worked against the Isiames as well as against the rest of the world.

"Eventually, they were found," Eunice went on. "But not by us. By the time we were finally able to locate them and rushed over to their home, they were both dead. I am sorry."

Harry shrugged one shoulder. "Not your fault," he muttered. He looked away from his mother's sober face. The tale of the last years of her life had brought a bitter taste in his mouth; she hadn't deserved it. As he mechanically cast his eyes around the room, searching for a distraction, he noticed for the first time something very odd.

"Wait, where's Rosalyn's sword?"

Eunice's face grew sombre. "It did not come back to us after your mother's death," she said, "and we were never able to find it. I suspect a wizard found it at her home soon after she died, and took it away — perhaps hid it with many enchantments so that we could not locate it. We can only guess."

Harry nodded absently as he let his gaze drift away in the room filled with glittering blades, feeling his mother's sad gaze lying heavy on the back of his head.

* * *

"So what do you think?" Daphne brightly asked, her arms spread as she slowly revolved in the middle of her new living room.

Harry, leaning against the back wall of the room, raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Rather… bare, don't you think?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Well of course, I have to find the furniture for it! I can get everything I need at the Muggle town, the tricky part is to take it back here. Brandon offered to help, do you want to join us?"

Brandon was the Isiame apprentice who had shown Daphne around the city and taken her to her new house; he was a jovial Muggle-born in his mid-forties, whom Harry didn't mind having around, but which he found a bit tiresome with his never-relenting enthusiasm.

"Tempting, but no, thanks," he said. "In fact I don't think it's a good idea for you to get out of here at all. Let Brandon do your shopping and lie low for a little while, the Ministry might be combing the area—"

"You don't know that," Daphne countered as she turned her back on him to check inside an adjacent room. "You don't even know if they're looking for us at all. It was all guesswork from the beginning. Merlin, this place is _huge!_"

"My guesswork tends to be pretty accurate as far as the Ministry's reactions are concerned," Harry snapped. "I'm one of them, remember?"

He thought he saw Daphne's hands tighten into fists as her back stiffened, and he braced himself for the explosion of bad temper that would be so typical of her — then, to his great surprise, she relaxed and said in a mild tone, "Yeah, you're right. What are you planning to do then?"

"Uh — well, I was thinking I could try to figure out what the Ministry's up to," he slowly said, a bit taken aback still at her lack of reaction. "My Head of Department gave me a mission, and he doesn't like the Unspeakables all that much, so I don't think he'll go after my blood right away. I could contact him and get his help to cover my tracks, I imagine."

"And what if he's after your blood anyway?"

"I think I can handle him," Harry said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

Daphne nodded. "Good then." She walked up to him and, taking him by surprise for the second time in as many minutes, leant up to kiss him lightly on the mouth. "Come back soon. And be careful, okay?" she breathed against his lips.

"Always am," he murmured in answer, and since she was there, her face inches from his, her lips full and slightly parted and inviting, and since he had nothing better to do, he kissed her again.

When he walked out of Daphne's house, he found the Isiame Sao waiting for him, oblivious of the snowflakes that lazily drifted all around her, getting tangled in her long grey hair.

"Where are you heading for, Mr. Potter?" Sao asked, in that breathless, thready voice that systematically made Harry ill-at-ease.

"Does it matter?"

"You are free to come and go as you please, of course," Sao murmured. "But we have waited for you for so long, we greatly fear we might lose you again."

"I'm going out," Harry curtly said, "but I'll come back. I don't want to leave my friend all alone here."

"Miss Greengrass is quite safer here than she would be—"

"Even so." Harry threw a sideways glance at the old Isiame as he walked past her and strode along the path, heading for the faraway Elemental Gate. She was hurrying to keep up, her staff hitting the polished stone with a dull, hard sound. He started distractedly fingering the handle of his wand.

"Do you not want to come back here for yourself?" she insisted. "Do you not feel better here, among your peers? Do you not have questions you wish to be answered?"

"I've got a mission to finish. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

The thumping sound of the old woman's staff died down at last, and Harry sped up his pace.

And then stopped dead in his tracks. "Now wait a minute," he said, whirling around to face again the old Sao. "I do have a question."

The Isiame slowly drew closer to him, hazel eyes questioning under her creased brow.

"The werewolves in Hogsmeade," Harry said. "Why do they keep coming back, again and again?"

Sao's face split in a grin. "I thought it was obvious, Mr. Potter. The Forest has sensed the arrival of an exceptionally powerful Isiame. The Trees are restless. The werewolves sense it in turn, and keep coming back as close to the Forest as they can — and end up chasing the only human beings in the vicinity."

"But what do werewolves have to do with the Forest?"

"We call them the moon's bastards," Sao murmured. "The first wizard to be bitten by a transformed Isiame became a werewolf, and infected others after him. They do not have the full power of Isiames, but still have some of their abilities, albeit lessened… And they do sense an Isiame's power."

"So all Isiames are able to transform into Wolves then," Harry said.

Sao nodded, her eyes fluttering shut as a dreamy expression stole over her wrinkled, angular face. "Oh, yes. Those are my favourite moments, the transformations. The thrill of being part of the pack. Of running, without concern nor restrain, wherever the wind takes us. Just stopping now and again to salute the moon. Being in the pack makes everything feel right, in its own place."

Harry couldn't help the shudder that ran up his spine. The woman's words found an echo in a very primal part of him, the part that yearned for his monthly transformations, for the long run across the countryside without any worry weighing on his mind. He had to blink several times to clear his mind, which had suddenly clouded with irrepressible longing. Sao was watching him, her smile a little too understanding to his liking.

"I'd…" He took a deep, calming breath. "I'd better go."

And turning on his heel, he stalked away, striving to focus again on his duty.

* * *

The tall green flames of the secure Floo connection flickered and sprung higher, and a second later Gawain Robards' large silhouette appeared in their midst, spinning like a top. Harry stepped back, giving his superior enough room to move out of the fire.

"Potter," Robards growled as soon as he had staggered onto a floor blackened with grime. "What the bloody hell is this… rat hole?"

"That would be Lance Colman's flat, sir," Harry politely answered, fighting off a grin at Robards' disgusted expression. "It has all the protection necessary for a meeting."

"Really?" Robards' small eyes swept across the stained walls and floor, the furniture covered in dust and filth, and the rotting bits of food lying all around. "And where is Colman now?"

"I told him to settle in my place for the duration of my mission. I doubt he'll come back here unless I kick him out of my flat again."

"I can only understand him," Robards grumbled. "Places like this one should be illegal. Anyway, Potter, can you explain to me the mess we've got now? Granger at St. Mungo's, an Unspeakable called Dramont found dead in a small chamber, apparently strangled, and for some reason the ninth-floor requested battalions of Aurors to be sent over to a house in Frog End — a house that also happens to be your quarters for the mission!"

"The ninth-floor had me followed," Harry said grimly. "I caught Dramont spying on me yesterday evening. He accidentally died in the fight. I was able to trace him back to Hermione Granger and paid her a visit, but we couldn't reach an agreement and it ended a little abruptly. On my way back I grabbed the owner of the Frog End house and took her away, before the ninth-floor could get their hands on her."

Robards nodded curtly. "You think they would've arrested her?"

"I'm positive, sir. The ninth-floor is researching about ancient creatures, very powerful, which are somehow related to werewolves—"

"—Hence the Hogsmeade business."

"Precisely. You've seen they're ready to sacrifice an entire village if it can get them information about those creatures; they would hardly shrink from arresting an innocent."

"So it seems," Robards agreed, a troubled expression on his wide, crude features. "Blast it, Potter, I hate this situation. Scrimgeour is doing exactly what Martin asks him to do, and leaves me in the dark. Were you able to find out whether those creatures are dangerous?"

Harry hesitated. "I'm… not sure, sir," he said at last. "I'm watching them closely."

"Good. Stay out of trouble. Don't try anything without referring to me first." Robards brought up his left wrist, pushing back his sleeve to bare a thick, hairy forearm and a Muggle wristwatch. He vanished the glass with a swish of his wand and started moving the hands of the watch, his tongue stuck between his teeth as he squinted in concentration.

"It's half past one in the afternoon, sir," Harry helpfully supplied.

Robards snorted. "Thank you, Potter, but I have absolutely no use for this piece of information. Ah… Chloe?"

Harry had to repress a start when a tinny female voice answered, coming from Robards' wristwatch, "Yes, Mr. Robards?"

"Chloe, be a dear and use the secure Floo connection in my office. The password is the name of my favourite brand of cigars, I trust you remember it."

"I do, sir," the tinny voice said.

"Good. Take the file number two hundred and fifty five with you. I'm expecting you."

"Yes, Mr. Robards."

Robards nodded to his own wristwatch and waved his wand at it again, causing the glass to reappear. Looking up, he caught sight of Harry's expression and sniggered.

"When you're grown-up you'll get one of those, Potter."

Harry emitted a non-committal grunt. "You're bringing your secretary into this?"

"She's loyal to me," Robards gruffly said. "Between you and me, she might be the only Ministry employee I completely trust — ah, here she comes."

The green flames had just leapt with renewed vigour, enveloping the revolving form of a thin woman. Moments later Robards' secretary cautiously stepped out of the magical fire, the file Robards had asked for clutched to her chest, wide eyes darting left and right around Lance's apartment; then there was a flash of recognition in her eyes and her nose wrinkled in disgust. Harry then remembered that Lance had had a brief liaison with her, and had apparently taken her to his apartment — something that had probably sped up the breakup process — and he had to pinch his lips to hide his grin.

"Chloe, the file," Robards sharply ordered.

The secretary gave it to him with a mumbled word of assent and stood there, casting her eyes around her with the same vaguely disgusted expression, her arms folded across her chest in a somewhat defensive stance. She shifted slightly on the spot, probably a little cold — Harry couldn't tell, since his sensitivity had once again evaporated as soon as he was out of the Isiame city — and as she did so her rather plain features were exposed to the light of the dying flames.

Harry frowned as a memory suddenly popped to the front of his mind.

"Here, Potter, take a look at this…"

At his boss's injunction, Harry drew closer to him and glanced at the file Robards held open. There, the comings and goings of Alphonse Martin, Chief Unspeakable, had been meticulously reported for the past two days. The Frenchman had apparently gone on several errands, some of them in Paris, a few at Hogwarts, and a dozen in Frog End, over the past ten hours.

"Interesting, eh?" Robards rumbled. "Looks like you were right. The old Frenchie's going crazy over that case of yours. He's a dangerous man, Potter; you might want to look out for him."

"You had him followed, sir?" Harry slowly asked, trying not to show his incredulity.

Robards snorted as he snapped the file closed. "You think I'd delegate that task to anyone? Nah, I did it myself. Here, you keep that — see if you can make any sense of Martin's wanderings. Chloe and I are leaving through the Floo connection. Contact me again in twenty-four hours."

"I will."

"Good. I'm off then. Oh, and Potter…" Robards paused just as he was about to step into the Floo fire, his head turned so that he could look at Harry over his shoulder. "You know, when I told you to 'break into the Department of Mysteries if you had to'… I wasn't being _literal._" He chortled, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. "Merlin's balls, Potter. You should've seen the Unspeakables' faces this morning. _Priceless._"

Still chuckling, he waved his wand around him, causing the fire to roar back to life and envelop completely his voluminous person. He was gone in the blink of an eye.

"Well, I'll take my leave as well," the secretary said. "Goodbye, Mr. Potter, and good luck, I suppose."

"Hey, wait a moment here," Harry brusquely said. Grabbing the woman's elbow, he spun her around so that she was facing him and unceremoniously thrust his wandlight into her face. She squealed and squirmed, trying to escape him, but he did not lower his wand until he had had a good look at her face.

"Well," he said lightly at last, "it was a pleasure, Miss Greengrass."

The secretary stopped protesting at once and flinched under his relentless stare.

"I must say I'm a bit surprised you would specifically send me to your sister's house, out of all the places I could've stayed at in Frog End," Harry went on.

Chloe Greengrass winced and didn't answer; Harry grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him in the eyes. He couldn't help but notice that touching _her_ skin absolutely had no effect on him at all.

"Who told you to pick that house?" he asked in a low voice. "Not Robards, right?"

"I…" The girl took a deep, shuddering breath. "No one. She told me you were different, a bit like her, and I thought — I thought you could help her…"

Harry stared at her hard. He didn't like her explanation — it sounded far too convenient that he would be sent precisely where the Isiames had been waiting for him, just because Chloe Greengrass was worried about her baby sister. But the girl's face merely showed fear.

"Is she alright?" she stammered.

Harry sighed, then let go of her. Chloe brought a hand to her elbow and started rubbing it, shaking slightly where she stood.

"Yes," Harry said. "She's fine. She's safe."

Chloe glanced up at him again, shyly averting her eyes when she met his gaze. "Will you take care of her?" she asked in a small, pleading voice.

Harry inwardly groaned. This conversation wasn't turning out the way he wanted it to. _Damn the stupid saving-people reputation._ "Fine, fine, I will, now hurry up or your boss will wonder where you've gone," he snapped.

She jumped at his irritable tone and hurried to the Floo fire, adjusting her robes as she went. As the flames rose high all around her, Harry caught a last glimpse of her face, smiling gratefully at him — in the same way it had been smiling in the small picture hanging on a wall of Daphne's yellow bedroom.

Harry muttered under his breath about women in general and sisters in particular as he cleared the remains of the Floo connection; then with a sigh of relief he got out of Lance's filthy, stinking apartment, Robards' file under his arm, and jogged up the stairs that led from the underground flat to the courtyard.

There he Disapparated at last — back to the Isiame City, where Daphne was waiting.


	18. The Inheritance

**A/N: Now betaed.**

**For those who don't remember well the previous chapters, I've made a synopsis of the story; it's not very long to read and will make this chapter clearer, I hope. The link is my home page in my profile.**

**Apologises for the -looks it up- 6 month gap between this chapter and the last... It was supposed to be longer (the chapter, not the wait), but when I saw the wordcount I basically said 'fuck it'.**

**Hope you'll enjoy it.**

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: ****The Inheritance**

Harry tiptoed into the room, careful not to make any noise. Aurors were usually good at being quiet, and additionally Harry was helped by his abnormally sharp night vision, which spared him twice the inconvenience of impaling his thigh on the bedside table's sharp corner. Daphne's steady breathing filled the silence, a familiar, friendly sound that made the tiny bedroom feel like a home. Harry sat on the bed, quickly removing his clothes before fishing pyjama bottoms from under his pillow. Despite his worries, he couldn't hold back a contented sigh as he slid under the sheets. The day had been long.

Daphne moved beside him, and it appeared she hadn't been asleep, after all. She had not felt the need to wear her pyjamas either. Harry's concerns and fatigue were quickly relegated to a back corner of his mind, and he soon found out that Daphne had, too, plenty of energy to spare. As always, she smelled of apricots.

Half an hour later, a lethargic silence lay over the darkened bedroom like a thick, warm blanket. Harry stared up at the ceiling, Daphne's head heavy on his shoulder, her hair sticking to his sweat-slick skin.

It was the third night in the second week of his stay in the Isiame city, and Harry was lying low.

During Auror training, 'lying low' had always sounded to him like a break from action. Ironically enough, he had never felt so overwhelmed with work since the end of his apprenticeship.

Every day started before the sun rose, when the cold was so biting it felt solid. He and other Isiames would make their shivering, stumbling way through the snow that had piled up in the street during the night and glowed blue under the fading starlight. Once out of the city, a long climb took them to a windswept plateau, the only spot in the mountain where they were allowed to let loose their uncontrolled talents. They had usually just caught their breath when Sao joined them to start the tutoring.

She was a demanding teacher, and they were all exhausted by the time they made their way back to the city. Daphne wasn't part of their group, and as a result she and Harry didn't see much of each other during the day; yet he was still staying at her house in the evenings. It was supposed to be temporary, but neither of them seemed in a hurry to find him a new house. Or indeed, a bed of his own.

Harry yawned. He was nearly stupid with tiredness; his sluggish brain worked in slow motion and his thoughts kept fraying away like undone knitting. However something nagged at him from the back of his mind, akin to a splinter in his foot — dim and vague, but annoying as hell, and succeeding perfectly in keeping him awake.

He frowned at the ceiling and sat up, gently taking his arm from under Daphne's cheek. The cool air hit his bare back and shoulders and his head seemed to clear a little. After a while, he spoke up.

"You know what bothers me most about it all?"

A deep sigh answered him before Daphne's voice, thick with sleep, rose from the heap of crumpled sheets and blankets behind him. "No, what?"

"Sao." Harry frowned down at his clasped hands. "Either the woman's unstable, or there's a great deal I haven't figured out yet."

Daphne made a soft sound and turned over on her stomach, folding her arms under the pillow. "Why are you saying that?" she mumbled.

"All this talk about how they've been waiting for me," said Harry. He shook his head, trying to shake off more of the drowsiness that fogged his brain. "Waiting for me to do what? Rebuild the Isiame nation?"

"Mmh. She told me you had something… Something royal. I think."

"The Royal Family's eyes," Harry supplied.

"Yeah… That, and you're really powerful or something. Can't blame them for seeing it as a sign."

Harry snorted. "Right, let's talk about my so-called power. The only times I did something significant with it I killed two people and nearly smothered another." He licked his lips. They felt dry and chapped.

There was another rustling of sheets beside him and Daphne's hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, running over his skin in slow, lazy circles. "In my opinion that's all the more a reason to try to control it," she pointed out. "Sao's teaching you how, isn't she?"

"Yeah, she is," Harry sighed. "The first time, I thought she was going to start drooling in eagerness."

Daphne's breath exploded in quiet laughter. "Come on, she didn't _drool._"

"It was a near thing."

Daphne laughed again, her fingers now playing with the hair on the back of Harry's neck, and he leant his head back into her hand with a sigh. The half-smile that had started to tug at his lips at Daphne's reaction vanished as he recalled the old Isiame's fervent face, her deep-set hazel eyes glittering with something like fanaticism. His feeling of unease grew sharper, fighting against the lazy contentment born from Daphne's touch.

Uncrossing his legs, he slid them out from under the sheet and swung them over the edge of the bed, one hand self-consciously pulling the blanket up over his thighs and waist. The stone floor was cold enough to make his toes curl reflexively as he leant out of the bed and reached for his glasses on the bedside table. It was odd to feel all those little discomforts again. It made him feel more alive, more a part of this world than he'd felt in years — but it was also annoyingly distracting. Harry narrowed his eyes, focusing on acknowledging the sensation before pushing it out of his mind again.

And to think he needed to concentrate in order to do something a toddler could do without thinking; obviously, being back in the physical world took some getting used to. Although admittedly it wasn't so bad as it had been on the first days.

Daphne emitted a groan of protest as Harry's motion put him beyond her easy reach. "I don't get it. Why are you torturing yourself over that?"

"It's bothering me." Harry rubbed at his face with one hand, the skin around his eyes stiff with the effort of keeping them open, before he slid his glasses on. "Something's _off._"

"She says you've got power, she wants to teach you how to use it. What could possibly be _off_ about that?"

"The whole leader thing she keeps hinting at," he insisted. "I don't like it. What am I expected to do, convince the Ministry to give them Hogwarts?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daphne propping herself up on one elbow. "Or rather, give it _back. _Hogwarts was an Isiame land to begin with, remember? It would only be fair if it were returned to them. Hell, there's even an entire _forest _of Isiame spirits in the valley."

"And there's an entire castle of living wizards right beside it."

"Who cares?" she said hotly. "They stole the land; they have no right to be there. What? You still believe the propaganda about the all-wise and benevolent founders after what we've seen? Harry, they massacred an entire people."

"I know all that, but…" Harry shook his head again, struggling to find the right words. "Hogwarts… has been a magical school for over a millennium. Generations of kids went there, loved it and helped build it. For many of them it was their first contact with the magical world. For several, it was like a home. Three years ago, they fought and died to keep it whole."

"It doesn't make it any fairer," Daphne countered, her tone hard. "The land belongs to the Isiames. I don't see why I should care about those poor kids' broken hearts over losing their precious school, if it wasn't theirs to begin with." She paused for a second. "And I don't see why you should, either."

"I'm attached to it."

"But… What the hell, Harry. Hogwarts would still be your land, as well as mine, as well as any other Isiame's. You're not a wizard. Those people are nothing to you. Even though you saved their arses several times over, most of them still think you're a madman who should be locked away. Why do you _care?_"

Harry licked his lips. He thought of Robards, who had never missed an opportunity to belittle him all through his apprenticeship; of Hermione, locked into her Department and studying him as if he was a freak; of the Weasleys, nice to him for old times' sake but keeping him at arm's length; of the furtive glances he had received, and the gossip he had heard.

He thought of Ron and Luna.

Of Chloe Greengrass.

Of Sao's hungry eyes.

"It sounds awfully convenient," he suddenly murmured. "My best friends, a witch and a wizard, get shot. The entire wizarding world suspects me. And the sweet caring older sister sends me right into the arms of a pretty Isiame girl…"

Silence greeted his words — not the sleepy calm of earlier, but a sudden tightening of air between him and Daphne, crackling with tension.

"What did you just say?" Daphne finally breathed out.

Harry shook his head. "Just…thinking out loud." There was a pregnant pause before he spoke again. "I need to talk to someone."

He bent forward and felt around the stone floor until his fingers brushed against the coarse material of his jeans. The belt buckle chinked as he snatched them up and started sliding them on.

"Harry, wait."

The mattress dipped behind him as Daphne rolled over and rose to her knees, holding the sheet to her front. She clenched a hand around his right elbow, and he paused in the act of rising to pull his trousers up over his hips to cast at her a questioning look. She looked alarmed.

"What — what was that? About a sister?" she stammered.

"I'll explain later," Harry said. He drew his arm back, but she held fast.

He frowned at her. "I'm going to need my arm, Daphne."

"No. Don't do that again. _Don't_ leave me to drive myself crazy with questions I don't have answers for. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

"Look, there's no point in worrying you with that for the moment. I need to set a few things straight—"

"No!" She moved closer to him, until her other hand came to rest on his shoulder. He could feel her breath on the side of his face, the sheet that covered her chest pressed against his back. "Harry — I helped you figuring things out, didn't I? And we went through many things together…didn't we?"

"We did," Harry said, a little puzzled, and rather impatient to end the conversation. "What are you getting at?"

Her lips brushed against his earlobe as she spoke. "I don't want to be just a clue."

Harry blinked.

"What?" he said in one breath.

"I don't want to be a clue in your investigation. An element of the riddle. Or the cumbersome sidekick who's too stupid to actually help you out, and who's easily shut up with a quick shag."

"I didn't—"

"Maybe you didn't mean it to come out that way." Her voice was very quiet, barely over a whisper. "But that's what it felt like. You drag me along, give me orders, drop me off somewhere without explaining anything to me—"

"Daphne—"

"After the Trees' Song, there was a moment where we were talking, and I thought you were finally seeing me as something more than an inconvenience. More than just…luggage. And now you're doing it again. You're going to leave me here again."

Her hands slid from his arm, from his shoulder, and the warmth of her breath vanished as she let herself fall back and away from him. Harry sat there with his jeans half-on, stunned and struggling to process what had just happened. His first reaction was impatience at how she had interpreted his actions — there hadn't been any time for more socialising, he had only done what was necessary under the circumstances — but then a curious feeling settled in, something slow and quiet but most unpleasant, a twisting sensation in his stomach that he hadn't experienced in a long time. It felt suspiciously like guilt.

His face heated up and he let out a frustrated sigh. Daphne hadn't always been a treat. She had yelled at him, mocked him, gone against him at almost every opportunity, and had even held him at wand point… And yet, she had been the one in need, the one lost in the dark, the one he was supposed to help and protect — and for the past days, she had also helped him, and been the first woman whose touch he had experienced since his teenage years.

And most of the time, he had acted exactly as she had described. Damnit.

He leant backwards, twisting his upper body towards her and resting his forearm on the sheets behind him to support his weight, and turned his head to look at her. She sat in the middle of the bed with her knees brought up to her chest, her arms around her legs, her blond head a clear spot in the obscurity that drowned the room. Harry swallowed. He had important things to do — but if he left her now, he wasn't sure he would be able to look at her in the face the following morning.

And Daphne Greengrass had become someone he wanted to see, talk to, and touch. If he found himself unable to do so, he would miss her. A lot.

"Look," he started, then fell silent. Truth be told, he had absolutely no idea what he could tell her.

Seconds went by, and turned into minutes. Harry's malaise grew until he had to fight the urge to squirm. Daphne said nothing.

He finally settled for, "I'm sorry."

It came out hoarse and strained. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I mean, I'm not much used to — well, for the past years I've pretty much acted solo. All the time. I didn't really have a partner to talk to, I didn't have friends I trusted enough, and, well… as far as relationships go…"

His voice trailed away, and he couldn't work up the nerve to go on. His life over the past three years had been horribly lonely — the kind of loneliness that gnawed at the heart like an old, purulent wound, the dull pain a bearable but constant background. He didn't feel comfortable exposing his weaknesses and his wounds to anyone. There was something indecent about the idea.

So he shut up. He turned on his stomach and dipped his head, resting his forehead on Daphne's arm, and stayed that way for a few moments.

Then he said again, in a very low voice, "I'm sorry. I don't consider you as luggage at all. I'm glad you're here."

Daphne moved her arm from under his forehead and raked her fingers through his hair, in a slow, purposeful caress. "Don't leave me tonight."

Harry heaved a sigh. "I want to ask Eunice about some things. I think…I feel there's something she's not telling me. As if she had her own schedule. I need to confront her about a couple of coincidences—"

"It'll be time for that tomorrow, Harry." Daphne's voice got deeper, quieter. Harry found himself listening to the rhythm of her words more than to the meaning of them, and it was strangely appeasing. "Right now, you need sleep… You're exhausted…"

All of sudden, Harry's eyelids dropped as if they were made of lead, and it became inhumanly difficult to lift them back up. Daphne's voice was still all around him, soft, pleasant, whispering, and his limbs felt heavier, warm drowsiness clouded his mind again, and although he dimly felt there was something imperative he needed to do, something that he couldn't quite recall, it had all become of secondary importance. He raised a hand to rub at his eyes, clear his mind a little, but his fingers met the hideously cold and hard glass of his spectacles — such sensations had no place in all the warmth and softness. He tore them off his face, and his eyes fluttered shut at last.

Daphne rose to her knees again, letting him drop heavily to the bed, and bent over him to push his jeans off his legs. He had just enough senses left to slide his body back under the sheets — then his head was pillowed by Daphne's stomach, his arms curling around her — and then he smoothly glided into sleep.

He woke up to an empty bed and a pounding headache.

He rolled onto his back with a groan of discomfort, eyes tightly shut against the dim morning light that poured into the room from between the drawn curtains. The room was completely silent, and he was pretty sure he was alone, but just to be certain he started rummaging in the dishevelled blankets with a hesitant hand; the spot he had been occupying ten seconds ago was still warm, but anywhere else, the sheets were almost uncomfortably cool. Daphne had left hours ago.

He cracked an eye open and squinted at the blur of greys that filled his vision. The migraine pulsed from the back of his skull, disturbingly similar to the headache he had got from the Song of the Trees ten days before, although on a mercifully smaller scale. He sat up with cautious motions, careful not to worsen the pain, and groped around for his glasses.

He frowned. They weren't in the sheets, where he thought he had dropped them the night before. They weren't on the bedside table either, and when, losing his patience, he resolved to Summon them and brushed his fingers against the stone floor in search for his wand, he couldn't find it either. The floor was completely bare. Even his clothes were gone.

A switch went off inside of him. He slowly sat back on the bed, the annoyance and growing panic abruptly vanishing to be replaced by an eerie, cold kind of calmness. His migraine had receded to a feeble ache over his eyes, leaving his thoughts and memories crystal clear.

It wasn't a coincidence if the headache felt the same as in the Forest. It was a fair bet Daphne's singing was something similar to the Song of the Trees, albeit less potent. She had put him to sleep. Again.

Then she had fled with his glasses, wand, and clothes. He had been played like a child.

Harry lay back on the bed and stared unseeingly at the ceiling, as deaf to the roaring whirlwind of emotions inside him as if they belonged to another person. He did not move at all, save for his hands, which clenched and unclenched spasmodically on the sheets.

She should have been more thorough.

Five minutes later, a white wolf trotted along the street of the Isiame city, indifferent to the awed stares that followed him. The sky was of a blind white, the snow dazzling. The inhabitants of the city were busy getting rid of the snow that had accumulated on the narrow paths, as it had the day before; Harry noted as he passed that they used fire to melt it before directing the water towards the drainpipes that cascaded down the mountain. He tore his eyes from the view and picked up speed.

He could not believe that transforming had been so easy, while it was still more than a week before the next full moon. The Isiames' presence made it smoother, of course: from the moment he had stepped inside the city, he had felt, in the back of his mind, what Sao had often talked about — the longing to be part of the pack. It had been disturbingly easy to let this longing take possession of him. The difficulty, when he had opened his eyes again to find himself transformed, had been to remember what needed to be done.

He was in control now, though. He had an idea where Daphne might have run off to; she had probably wanted to question Eunice or Sao, who both lived in the large house in the middle of the city. If he was wrong, he would have to think of something else.

He reached his destination within minutes. He ran lightly over the steps that climbed towards the porch, pushed the door open with his snout and entered the house. The main hall was empty, but smells lingered there, several of them. He thought he caught the faintest whiff of apricot.

Following his sense of smell, Harry explored the house, silent as a ghost. The high-ceilinged corridors were deserted; most of the glass balls that had been full of dancing flames were now extinguished. It was simple to find the only room still inhabited by living beings — he located it on the second floor, on the eastern side.

Just as he bounded up a staircase, however, something else caught his attention — he couldn't tell if it was a sound, a smell or just instinct, but at this instant he was sure someone else was in the house, a long way under him, deep in the insides of the mountain. The fur on his back bristled. He froze on the top of the stairs, all his senses alert.

The feeling didn't come back. All was silent and cold down there.

He averted his gaze and set off again, aiming for the only lit room along the corridor; he could see shadows dancing on the curtain hanging in the doorframe, cast there by flickering flames. However he had lost the calm sense of purpose that had filled him ever since he had transformed, and in spite of himself, kept his ears strained to catch sounds coming from lower floors.

"…know who he was talking about?" came Daphne's urgent voice. Harry's attention snapped back to the present. He slowed down to a halt behind the curtain, as Eunice's troubled voice answered.

"My dear, I cannot be sure… From what you told me, he probably meant your own sister had arranged your encounter… But she is a witch, we are sure of that. We checked when we discovered your own true nature, years ago, when you failed your Apparition tests in a most suspicious way."

"That's the point! Why would my sister be associated with you? Wizards don't want anything to do with Isiames! Couldn't it be just a coincidence?"

There was a rustling of clothes, and the slow thudding sounds of pacing feet. "I'm afraid I agree with Mr. Potter here. It does sound very convenient."

"But—"

"When you have lived as long as I have, Daphne, you know interference when you see it…" A hint of anger sharpened the old Isiame's voice and the pacing stopped. "I need to talk to Sao, I think. Meanwhile, maybe you should give his clothes back to Mr. Potter. I doubt he will appreciate the situation much."

"I…" In his mind's eye, Harry clearly saw Daphne squirming on the spot, uncomfortable and resenting it. "Well, on my way down I'll ask Brandon to give them back to him in an hour. I need a little time to figure things out. He's infuriating — won't tell me anything — but I need to know. He'll get hurt, and stupidly, if he keeps trying to do everything on his own."

"I'm afraid that is not an option, my dear. He's waiting just outside the room."

There were a few seconds of shocked silence, on both sides of the curtain. Harry was the first to recover and started forward once more; the hanging cloth slid off his shoulders with a sighing sound as he crossed the threshold.

He found himself in a small bedroom, lit by a single glass ball hanging near the ceiling. The furniture was sparse: a narrow bed, a single chair on which Daphne now sat, her eyes wide and her mouth gaping, and a desk; but the walls were entirely painted in an immense fresco of rolling hills and skies at different times of the day and year, dotted here and there with figures — men, women and animals — meticulously and perfectly depicted. The effect was startling. It was hard to believe they were still inside a mountain.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," said Eunice with a gracious smile. The old woman stood by the desk, her tall frame stooped over her staff. "It is a pleasure to see you, but unfortunately my duties call me elsewhere; forgive me if I leave you in the care of Miss Greengrass for the time being. I think you need to talk anyway."

The Isiame nodded to him, then to a still petrified Daphne, before she calmly walked out of the room. The thudding sound of her staff faded in the distance.

Harry turned his Wolf's eyes on Daphne. She swallowed audibly.

"Potter?" she tentatively said. "That… is that really you?"

Harry concentrated — it was much harder now, so much harder to give up his animal form than to accept it — and in moments he stood on his two feet again; his vision blurred instantly, and the cold crashed on his bare shoulders like a tidal wave.

"Care to give me my wand and clothes back?" he asked, doing his best to prevent the chattering of his teeth.

Daphne didn't even protest. She let a bundle of clothes fall from her arms to the floor, and Harry quickly got dressed.

"Didn't know you were an Animagus," she said dully.

"I'm not." He weighted his wand in his hand, before whirling about and pointing it at her. "Don't ever do that again."

He was surprised to hear how cold he sounded — he had not realised himself how much she had angered him. In fact, his fury, momentarily forgotten in the thrill of his transformation, was now causing his knuckles to turn white around his wand; and even to him his reaction seemed quite disproportionate to the little trick she had played on him.

Daphne flinched and looked away from him, but there was defiance in her voice when she answered. "I just meant to—"

"_I don't care what you meant!" _

Harry's voice exploded in the tiny room and sent echoes bouncing wildly in the corridor beyond the curtain. Daphne started and paled, visibly scared. Harry found that his other hand was clenched into a fist at his side; blood pounded against his temples. He didn't even try to lower his voice.

"I don't care what went through your head, Greengrass. Never do that again. _Never_ manoeuvre me like that again. You use that Song on me one more time, and I'll make sure you lose the ability to sing or talk at all."

He stared at her. From white her face had gone scarlet; she did not say anything but looked down, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive stance. Her hair fell, obscuring her expression. She looked defeated and scared, and Harry spun around and left before he said or did something stupid.

He strode through the mountain, still burning with the fury that had exploded inside him at the sight of Daphne — the very same Daphne who had made him feel ashamed the previous day, complaining of his lack of trust. The irony of the situation would have made him laugh if he wasn't feeling like blasting the whole mountain apart. He remembered the way she had cowered while he screamed at her; his teeth ground together audibly. He had completely lost his self-control.

He hated that her little stunt of this morning should affect him so much. She was supposed to be a witness, a clue, a liability; what she had done — what he had let her do — was nothing but a slip from his part and a small contretemps. It was not supposed to make him fly off the handle like a novice.

Harry soon reached the bottom of the main staircase to find himself in the hall, with its forest of carved pillars and its two chimneys drawing on the floor a shadow show. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hardly paid attention to his surroundings, and as a result, when Eunice's voice called his name from between two nearby pillars, he jumped and automatically reached for his wand.

"What?" he snapped, annoyed at being caught — yet again — unawares. After a second or two of thinking, he drew his wand anyway and kept it ready at his side.

The old Isiame noticed his move but made no comment at all. She took a few steps towards him, before halting and calling over her shoulder, "Sao — I wish you to be present."

There was a shuffling of feet and the second Isiame came into view, as suddenly as though she had taken off an invisibility cloak — but Harry then realised that she had merely been hidden by the irregular pattern of shadows cast by the stone pillars.

"It won't be necessary, my lady," said Sao. "I have understood my lesson."

"Have you really?" said Eunice scathingly. "You told me the same thing many times, and I was foolish enough to believe you. It won't happen again. I do not think you care that my rank commands your obedience, but I know you will care if the last Knight's son knows of some of your doings."

Harry's first impulse had been to say he wanted nothing to do with Isiames' internal politics, but the intonation of Eunice's last words froze the answer on his lips. A dull malaise twisted his stomach. He had a feeling he would not like what he was about to hear.

Eunice had struck true. Sao's wizened face had turned paper-white, and she seemed to shrivel and stoop under her superior and Harry's gazes. But when she lifted her head again, her eyes glinted as hard as agates. "My lady will do as she pleases," she said. "I regret nothing."

"I thought not."

"Excuse me," Harry interrupted. "What's going on?"

Eunice's deep blue eyes came to rest thoughtfully on him.

"I do not like wizards much, Mr. Potter, for reasons you will easily understand. However, I do not wish them harm. I am among those who think Isiames should have gone into hiding when wizards first attacked them. That is still what I wish, that Isiames could have their own civilisation beside the wizards'. I do not want anything to do with them. I do not consort with them, and I forbade anyone to do so.

"Yet, it seems Sao here always thought all means were good as long as we got what we wanted. Several times, she had contacts with wizards or witches, and put in peril our secrets in order to reach her goals."

"Our goals," Sao murmured. "My lady."

Harry and Eunice both ignored her. "You mean she's got a hand in this?" asked Harry. "That she told Chloe Greengrass to send me to her sister?"

"She has admitted as much to me. But she did not limit herself to this. If I understood her correctly, she altered the young witch's will enough to turn her into her personal spy. That is apparently how she learnt about your Wolf form, and about you using your full power to kill a man. So she was able to tell me about it."

Harry frowned. "But Chloe Greengrass never knew about my—" He broke off as realisation dawned on him. Chloe Greengrass did not know about his Wolf form or Malfoy's death, but her boyfriend did.

_Lance, you stupid drunkard…_

Even as Harry struggled to wrap his mind around the consequences of Eunice's revelations, the Isiame softly went on, "And I'm starting to suspect who sent the archers after your three friends, nearly a year ago."

It was like a physical blow: in a split second, the images of Healer Parletoo, Luna and Ron's white faces and empty eyes flashed through his mind, bringing with them the guilt and helplessness that had eaten at him when they had been found with arrows sticking out of their backs. As soon as they had come, however, they were washed away by a fresh wave of blind fury. Before he knew it, his wand was pointed at Sao's face.

"Is that true?" he said.

The old woman stared unblinkingly at him.

"Is that true?" Harry bellowed, and once again, a cacophony of distorted echoes answered him.

Sao lowered her grey head.

"For the cause, it is sometimes necessary to make sacrifices," she intoned. "I am sorry I caused you distress."

"Distress," Harry repeated, his mouth twisted in a snarl. "I should kill you."

Sao did not answer, and Harry's eyes narrowed as they focused on her stooped silhouette, on the gnarled hand gripping the staff. Would she try her magic against his? He did not care much if she did. A Killing Curse was worth all the Isiame magic in the world.

"I think I'm going to," he added.

"I think not," Eunice cut in. "Sao's actions were inconsiderate and distasteful, but she does not deserve death."

"My friends aren't much more than dead because of her!" shouted Harry.

"Sao," said Eunice. "The wizards' state. Is it permanent?"

Sao looked from her superior to Harry, then said in a low, defiant voice, "I only did it to preserve our secrets, which you all are so concerned about. Wizards must not want to remember us. I always protect my tracks, Lady Eunice, that I swear."

"By poisoning your sources?"

"Someone with power could reverse it, my Lady. They won't be damaged."

"Good. That's all I wanted to know." Eunice turned cool blue eyes on Harry. "The magic will be reversed, on the condition that you will not reveal anything to the wizard healers. You have my word."

Harry slightly lowered his wand, his gaze still locked to Sao's.

"You said you only did it to protect your secrets," he said. "But I think it was a very good way to break my last ties with the wizarding world, make me wish I were an Isiame. Wasn't it?"

Sao and Eunice both looked taken aback.

"Wish you were an Isiame?" repeated Eunice. "But you _are_ one. Besides, didn't wizards cut you from their society themselves, treating you like a foe rather than like their saviour?"

Harry pressed his lips tightly together, unconvinced. The idea that he had spent most of the last ten days following the instructions of the woman who had sent archers after Ron and Luna drove him insane. He felt he should have known, somehow, that he should have guessed what she had done — he had never liked her, but had never suspected she could resort to such measures.

He also realised it was the first time in weeks that he spared a thought for Ron and Luna. Shame mingled with his confusion and anger.

Then he thought of Lance and Chloe Greengrass. He needed to do something about them, and fast.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, "there's someone I need to meet. But don't think it's over," he added for Sao's benefit.

He turned his back on them and hurried for the door. As he walked out of the house then down the path, towards the other side of the mountain where the Elemental Gate had been built, he fingered in his pocket an empty cigar box Robards had given him at the end of their last meeting.

Robards' Portkey released him and fell to the floor with a loud clatter of metal on stone. The abrupt halt caused Harry to stagger a little; he quickly regained his balance, looked round, and the shockingly familiar sight that met his eyes nearly made him lose his footing again.

The first snow of the year blanketed the ground, clinging to the small gardens and the roofs of low houses that lined up along the street, where the snow had already been turned to grey mud. The ground he stood on had been cleared, and the stone slabs glistened wetly, reflecting the light pouring from the multiple square panes of frosted glass of the two windows behind him. The Portkey had taken him to the threshold of the Three Broomsticks, in Hogsmeade.

But it was not the Hogsmeade in ruins in the wake of the war, or the Hogsmeade haunted by mad werewolves: it was the village of old, peopled with a crowd of black-cloaked students, calling happily to each other and enjoying a rare weekend out of the school grounds.

It seemed Professor McGonagall had managed to reinstitute Hogsmeade weekends. Harry marvelled at the Headmistress's nerve.

A couple of teenage girls nearly bumped into him as they hurried inside the bar, and Harry, remembering what he had come for, shook himself and entered after them. The bar was crowded by the same laughing and chattering throng he had known during his own excursions to Hogsmeade, years before, and he needed a couple of minutes before spotting Robards' massive silhouette — he was crammed behind a table on a chair that strained under his weight. Harry hid a smirk and quickly made his way to his Head of Office. The whole place felt stuffed and hot, although outside of the Isiame city, he could not really feel anything; but the growing sensations of nausea and claustrophobia were real enough. He was glad to reach the quieter, cooler corner Robards had elected for their meeting.

"The Three Broomsticks, sir?" he said as he pulled a chair back to sit opposite his superior. "Not quite…what I'd expected."

Robards snorted. "I hope not. An Auror who behaves as expected is a poor one indeed. Besides, nothing's a better cover than a crowd of brats. Does the waitress know you or something?"

"Madam Rosmerta? She must remember me from—"

"Nah, not the barmaid with the huge tits. Girl around twenty, dark hair, pointed chin, average height?"

"Oh." Harry shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable. Robards smirked, his piggy eyes on him, and Harry forced himself to sit still and talk in a businesslike voice. "That would be Romilda Vane, sir. She left Hogwarts a couple of years after I did. Why are you asking?"

"Been stealing glances at you." Robards took a long cigar out of his pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, looking half-amused and half-annoyed. "If I knew you had a girlfriend or ex-girlfriend working here, I'd have chosen a different place for our meeting. That's the kind of stuff that ruins a cover just fine, you know."

"No worse than smoking a cigar that asphyxiates half the room, _sir,_" Harry replied through gritted teeth. His right hand was trembling a little. Something very much like withdrawal grated on his nerves; his body reacted badly to the loss of his sense of touch.

Robards snorted again, coughing out a cloud of smoke that made Harry's eyes water. "Well, finally. I was starting to wonder if you'd ever behave like James Potter's son. The number of times that lad told me to go to hell, when all you've ever done is press your lips together and say 'yes sir' in that constipated voice of yours… Man, the woman who raised you must've been tight-arsed."

Harry's eyes widened behind his glasses, and for a second he was distracted from his growing annoyance and his torturing need to go back to the Isiame city. "Excuse me?"

"Obviously, your father didn't have girlfriends," said Robards. "Since he got married right out of Hogwarts. But yeah, he had a big problem with authority. Not stupid, and competent, but couldn't keep his damn mouth shut. Got his arse kicked a few times over it." He thoughtfully pulled on his cigar. "I liked him quite a bit. If he had been given the time to learn some self-control, he would've made a damn fine Auror."

"But he went into hiding," Harry completed. "Look, I need—"

"Nah, he was kicked out. A pity. We were at war, he was one of the best fighters, nearly at your level; those kinds of apprentices aren't chucked out unless they've committed an actual crime, and to my knowledge he never… well, there _was_ talk of a duel, with some guy who had looked at Mrs Potter a little too closely, but it's common as hell. Maybe the guy got badly hurt and had enough connections to get back at Potter. That story is really—"

"Sir," Harry impatiently cut in. "This is fascinating, but I'm in a hurry."

Robards raised his eyebrows at him from behind a haze of blue smoke. "In a hurry," he repeated in a frosty tone, clearly hurt at being interrupted in the middle of his reminiscence. "Fine. Your report?"

Harry turned his glass between his fingers, and as he did so, became aware of the film of sweat that shone on the back of his hands. He pulled them back and hid them under the table, clasping them together on his lap to stop their trembling. Robards' stare was burning a hole in his forehead. He had to refrain from clearing his throat — it would only have made matters worse.

"Daphne Greengrass." He paused, grimacing. The mixture of contradictory emotions the name evoked lay heavy in his stomach like a badly digested meal. "The girl is tied to the entire mystery. I don't know exactly how, but she seems to be related to those ancient creatures I mentioned at our meeting at Lance Colman's; maybe through a distant ancestor, or something the creatures did to her. If you recall, she was chosen to accommodate me for my cover-mission in Frog End, a couple of weeks ago."

Robards' brows knit in confusion. "A bit much to be a coincid — ah. Chloe Greengrass." He reached out to crush the end of his cigar on Rosmerta's polished tabletop. "Damnit, I liked that girl. Quiet and competent. But obviously she's been playing some little game I don't like. Probably working with the Unspeakables… Ah, that's disgusting. Way to ruin my day. But fine, I'll have her watched."

Harry nodded his approbation. "Daph — the younger Greengrass isn't aware that I guessed about her sister. I'd like to keep it that way." He thought of mentioning Lance and decided against it. He had trouble believing Lance would have wished him harm — he had been imprudent, most likely. Either way, Harry wanted to check himself before he turned him in to Robards.

"Sounds good," Robards was saying. "I'll make sure she doesn't suspect anything."

"I'll also need a break to visit my friends in St. Mungo's, sir," Harry added.

Robards' thick face twisted into a scowl. "Half an hour today," he grumbled.

"Thank you. The Greengrass woman and I are in a safe location. I'm not sure whether she's completely innocent or has her own agenda, and even though she wants to stay close to me for protection, I need to leave her from time to time — as I'm doing now." Harry leant back in his chair, his eyes locked to the empty glass sitting on the table. "I need something to watch her while I'm away."

He liked the way his voice sounded — brittle and dry as an autumn leaf. No emotion. Not even a hint of resentment.

Robards nodded as he puffed out a fresh cloud of fragrant bluish smoke. The smoke hung in the air between them, then started swirling under the Head Auror's pensive gaze, going faster and faster until all Harry could see was a small whirlwind of opaque blue fog.

"Enough," said Robards. "Clear."

His wand was suddenly in his hand, even though Harry never saw him draw it, and it moved, the tip of it level with the tabletop. The whirlwind shattered, the smoke crumbling away in cotton-like little fragments, to reveal — a robe button.

It was just a plain, grey button sitting there on the tabletop, dull and small and absolutely uninteresting. Harry looked at it with a frown, then cast Robards an enquiring glance. Robards jerked his head towards it.

"A grass. You need to charm it sewn in place of one of Greengrass' buttons, and it will take the aspect of the normal button; at the same time, it'll record anything Greengrass says and does. The Aurors' password and a simple revealing charm are enough to replay all of her actions. You need to have access to her clothes, though."

"That won't be a problem." Not a line in Harry's face moved, even when Robards studied him with narrowed eyes.

"Well, good," said Robards. "Is that all you needed to tell me?"

"Yes sir."

"Fine. I'll be off." Robards lifted his considerable weight off the chair, which groaned and creaked as if in relief, and adjusted the cloak on his broad shoulders. "Maybe take the time to talk to that girlfriend or ex-girlfriend of yours," he said as he absently checked his pocket watch. "As a diversion."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Robards had turned on his heel and vanished into thin air. Inside the Three Broomsticks, despite the anti-Apparition charms.

Harry glared at his empty glass. He hated it when his Head of Office went out of his way to remind him how much he still had to learn.

Caution commanded that he didn't linger in the bar for too long, and his raw nerves and trembling hands made him long for the peace found at the Isiame city, however Harry remained sitting. For the first time in weeks, he was short of ideas. He would talk to Lance, Obliviate him if necessary, then see Ron and Luna at St Mungo's, then place the grass on Daphne's clothes — then what? What was he still looking for?

The mystery of his identity was seemingly solved, yet he was unsatisfied. Pieces were missing from the jigsaw. He felt detached from other Isiames, as he did from other wizards. Sao had assured him it was a temporary impression but he wasn't feeling too inclined to believe anything the old Isiame said now. His origins still felt murky, impure, even. His mother had been the last knight of Isiames, the guardian of their secret domain; but most of all, she had been a witch, a witch who had married a wizard.

Speaking of which, what part had James played in all this? Had he been aware of what his wife was? As he evoked the memory of his father, Harry was suddenly reminded of the Trees' memory in which he had seen teenage James Potter pick up Pallas' fallen sword. How could he have forgotten it, how could he have failed to wonder what that scene had meant? Had James been chosen to be a wizards' defender of some sort, the way Lily had been the Isiames' knight?

Harry absentmindedly rubbed at the old scar on his forehead. That notion made him deeply uncomfortable: if his theory turned out to be accurate, his parents had found themselves to be rivals, worse, mortal enemies. Yet they had got married, and had both died trying to save him…

And how much all this clashed with Robards' tale, that of a rash young wizard duelling another for looking at his wife too closely! Compared to what Harry had uncovered about his parents, this bit sounded so ridiculously — mundane.

Harry lost himself in thoughts of his father. What had Pallas' sword done? The more he thought about it, the more intrigued he was, even though it seemed to have little to do with his current problems. Rosalyn's sword had disappeared; had Pallas' gone missing as well? Now _that_ would be a funny coincidence…

But how could he know?

"Ahem."

Harry's hand blurred as it dove inside his pocket and drew his wand out, as though it was animate with its own life — and he needed a couple of seconds to realise he was jamming his wand in the stomach of a very shocked Romilda Vane.

Harry blinked. "Er, sorry about that," he said, hastily dropping his wand. "I'm a bit nervous lately."

"So I see," said Romilda shakily with a brave attempt at a smile. "I just wanted to ask if you wished to drink anything else?"

He was about to decline politely when Robards' advice came back to him. Perhaps talking to her wasn't such a bad idea after all; he needed to take his mind off business for a while. "Sure," he said. "If you join me."

Her eyebrows rose and a small smile tugged at her lips in what looked like pleasant surprise.

"Oh, well… I suppose I could," she said in a tone that was already an assent. "I'll ask Rosmerta if I can take a break. What do you want to drink?"

Harry ordered a Butterbeer — he had already had a Firewhisky and needed his wits about him — and watched her make her way through the throng of customers to the bar, where she leant forward to whisper in Rosmerta's ear. She had a nice silhouette, he noticed; taller than Daphne, and not as slight, but slim and healthy. A few Hogwarts students shot surreptitious glances at her, some of them openly ogling her legs which were bare under the knees.

Harry suddenly realised he was doing the exact same thing and straightened up in his chair, snorting a little at his own behaviour. A minute later Romilda was back, two tankards balanced adroitly on her tray.

"Here you go," she said, placing one before him. "So, where've you been? I haven't seen you since we met at the grounds' entrance." She gave a barely perceptible pause. "You were with a…a witness, is that it? A blonde."

A picture of Daphne's golden hair spilled over his chest flashed before Harry's eyes. He tightened his jaw and forced her out of his mind.

"Yes, I dropped her off to a safe place," he said. "Been travelling since then. I see Hogsmeade weekends have started up again?"

He gestured at the crowd of joyously chattering students.

Romilda beamed. "Oh, yeah. The Ministry set up a kind of ward around the village to keep the werewolves out — the only problem is that it keeps us in, too, but it's not as if we want to take a walk on full moons. Anyway, McGonagall convinced the mayor to ask that Hogwarts visits be allowed again. Since the mayor won't leave Hogsmeade, I'm arranging things with McGonagall instead. She wanted me specifically." She laughed. "She said I was the only one who wasn't stupid with fright yet in the entire village."

"That's great," said Harry with complete sincerity. "It's awesome to see the village like this again."

"I know. McGonagall knows how to get what she wants." She took a sip of her Butterbeer, her eyes unfocused and turned towards the north window, behind which, Harry knew, one could see the castle in the distance. "She asked me about you. She was worried."

Harry shrugged. "I'll pay her a visit eventually; I don't have the time today, I'm afraid."

Romilda suddenly laughed a little, causing him to lift an enquiring eyebrow. "Sorry," she giggled. "I just remembered… The Headmasters' portraits asked after you too, although they all pretended really hard that they didn't care. Even that black one in the corner, the creepy one with all the tree roots around his neck."

Harry had started to smile as he remembered the portraits' theatrical manners and their poor aptitude at faking sleep, but then her last words rang into his head, silencing all other thoughts. The black one in a corner — another unpleasantly vivid image filled Harry's mind: that of a livid face and long dirty hair, and pale blue eyes bulging out of their sockets as the Trees strangled their prey.

"Is there something wrong?" asked Romilda, apparently thrown off by his abrupt change of expression.

"No, just…thinking." Harry frowned. "You do mean the portrait in the top left corner, right? The one with the Chevalier de Pallas?"

"I don't know what he was called… The others called him Eric."

Eric. _The sycamores of the southern edge were_ _planted by unfortunate Eric de Pallas' successor… _He felt as though it had been years since he had read that line in _Headmasters of Hogwarts._

"Yeah, that's the one. What did he say exactly?"

"Just asked me if you were well," said Romilda with a shrug. "When I said I didn't know, that I hadn't seen you in a while, he looked sad and muttered something like 'such a young lad…' It almost got me worried for a moment, but then other portraits started bellowing that Eric was, er, 'gaga.' Dumbledore told me to say hello to you from him. And that was it."

"Mmh. Romilda," Harry brusquely said, coming to a decision, "can you do me a favour, please?"

"Name it," she said at once.

"I'd like you to go to Hogwarts as soon as possible and talk to McGonagall. Tell her I'm fine, then ask if you can talk to the portraits. Alone."

Romilda nodded, her eyes fixed intensely on his, her brow furrowed.

"Then," Harry went on, "say hello to Dumbledore from me, and ask Pallas what became of his sword."

"His…sword?"

"Yes." Harry licked his lips. "It's very important. Ask him what would happen to anyone who found it, and where it is now. As soon as you have the answer, owl it to me — here, you'll write this on the envelope."

And grabbing her hand with his own, he waved his wand over her palm. After a second, Romilda's eyes widened.

"What's that?" she asked, staring down at the unblemished skin of her palm.

"My reference number," said Harry. "No one can see it but you. Write my name on the envelope, then write that number, and send the owl away. Do you understand?"

She nodded, drawing her hand back and cupping it in her other palm, apparently unable to detach her eyes from it. "Yes, I'll do exactly that."

"Good. Thank you so much." Harry grinned at her, excitation bubbling in his stomach; that was his best chance. He suddenly rose from his seat, causing her to look up in alarm. "Now I really must go," he said by way of explanation. "Got a lot of things to do this afternoon — I'll hear from you soon, I hope."

"As soon as I can go to the castle. Also, Harry…"

He paused in the act of fastening his cloak on his shoulders. "Yeah?"

"When this investigation is over, I'll ask you on a proper date," Romilda said with a small smile. "Unless, of course, you have other witnesses to take care of."

He blinked and tried to think of something to say in return, but she had already got up, picked up her tray and their two tankards, and passed him on the way to the bar.

He stared after her. She really had nice legs.


	19. The Black Hole

**A/N: Yes, I know. It's been 6 months and 20 days. _And_ my beta fell into a crevasse. Anyway, here's the 18th chapter, unbeta'd -- insert generic apology for the linguistic mistakes here. Hope you will enjoy it nevertheless; I personally have no idea what to think of that chapter.**

**The synopsis of the story is still available at my 'Homepage' link; I've continued it with a summary of chapter 17, which I also copy and paste here: **

_ Harry and Daphne have been living in the Isiame city for over a week now. Sao, the second-in-command of the city, treats Harry like a messiah come to finally rebuild the Isiame nation. Harry, however, is still torn between his magical origins and his newfound Isiame ones. Daphne doesn't approve or understand his reluctance. While they argue over the issue, Harry suddenly realises that many recent events -- such as the shooting of Ron, Luna and the Healer, and the way Chloe Greengrass pushed him into her sister's arms -- caused him to easily embrace the Isiame cause; the coincidence is such that he suspects they were orchestrated by Isiames to rally him to their side. When he tells her that, Daphne panics and charms him to sleep, then secretly goes to interrogate the Chief Isiame Eunice. _

_Later, Harry catches them in full then appears that Chloe Greengrass was working on Sao's orders when she arranged Harry and Daphne's encounter; Sao was also the one who had Harry's friends shot. Furious against both Daphne and Sao, and fearing Chloe got her information about him from Lance who had a brief liaison with her, Harry leaves the city at once to deal with his ex-colleague. On his way he has to take more instructions from the Head Auror, Robards, in the Three Broomsticks. During the meeting, Robards offhandedly tells him a story about his father James, which Harry disregards. However, remembering that he saw in his dreams James picking up the sword of the former Headmaster Pallas, he sends the waitress Romilda to ask Pallas's portrait what became of that sword._

_Ever since he left the Isiame city, Harry lost his sense of touch again; he also feels sick as though he were in withdrawal._

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**Chapter Eighteen**** – The Black Hole**

Behind his freckles Ron had always been pale, of that milky paleness characteristic of redheads. Now, he looked grey against the snow-white sheets of St Mungo's. Even his lips were discoloured, and his freckles had the sickly look of dull-beige pockmarks.

In contrast, the flaming red hair looked almost obscenely healthy, like a huge, flamboyant parasite starving the face of its blood supply. Far from being tangled or too long, it was neatly cut, clean, and more thoroughly combed than it had ever been when Ron was awake; it was even parted in the middle, on either side of a white, unnaturally straight line. From the moment he had laid eyes on the comatose man, Harry had been fighting the urge to reach out and rumple his hair.

"You can talk to him, you know," Cho Chang said in that falsely cheerful voice that was peculiar to Healers. "Of course we can't tell for sure, but it's very probable they can hear people around them."

"Thank you," said Harry. "I'll call you if anything happens, okay?"

For a second, Cho's face clearly displayed that she thought highly unlikely that anything should happen—but then it was gone, to be replaced once again by her gratingly bright smile.

"Of course, of course," she trilled. "Ring the silver bell on the bedside table. I'm on duty this afternoon."

"Great. Thank you," repeated Harry.

She didn't insist and left the room, a somewhat disappointed expression on her face. Harry vaguely wondered what she had been expecting before shrugging it off and returning his attention to Ron's bed.

While Luna had merely looked as though she was sleeping, Ron looked like a corpse—again, save for his hair. Remembering Cho's recommendation, Harry tentatively called his name, before feeling utterly silly and falling silent. He let his eyes wander around the room, pensively taking in the get-well cards and fresh flowers covering every inch of the bedside table, the book lying on the floor next to the headboard—was someone reading to him aloud?—and the hundred little signs left by friends and family visiting his best friend's bedside.

A small pang of envy went through Harry. He knew the feeling well: he had experienced it many times in his teenage years, when Ron went back to the Burrow while _he_ stayed at Privet Drive where the Dursleys treated him like a smelly, ugly dog that might go rabid any moment. At the same time, shame clenched his stomach. He had spent more time in that hospital than any Auror he knew, and yet he had never taken the time to visit.

Harry leant forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, and pushed his glasses on top of his head to rub at his face with both hands. He almost wished he had not come. All he was doing was making him feel even worse; as if the fever and nausea weren't enough. His physical condition had deteriorated a little further since he had left the Three Broomsticks in search of Lance Colman, and it showed no signs of improving any time soon.

Harry let out a breath. He had found Lance without too much trouble, which was fortunate: the scene that had followed had been unpleasant enough on its own. In typical Lance fashion, his co-worker had chosen to answer his enquiries with sarcasms, shrugs and changes of topic. That was nearly a confession in itself, as Lance was only ever frank and straightforward when he was in a position of strength; Harry's precise and very direct questions made him deeply uncomfortable. Within two minutes Harry was certain Lance had, indeed, babbled to Chloe Greengrass—but because of Lance's eternal evasiveness, he had no idea how much damage had been done.

It had infuriated him. In normal circumstances he might have been able to play Lance's game and drive him into a corner, but his physical discomfort made it hard for him to remain composed, and he had quickly lost his temper. He now suspected that was all Lance had been hoping for, given the eagerness with which he had thrown himself into the argument. Eventually Harry had stormed out of a ravaged apartment, leaving Lance lying on the floor, stunned and clutching at a broken leg.

And now—what?

Harry released his face, roughly pulling his glasses back on his nose in a terse, aggravated gesture, and stared at Ron's face as though he could give him the answers he needed. But for all the response he got, his best friend might as well have been carved into marble. Harry felt an absurd burst of resentment towards him, sleeping peacefully in a bed while he, Harry, was yet again supposed to struggle alone to solve everyone's problems.

He needed a moment to force his temper back under control. It was ridiculous; Ron had not _asked_ to be shot, in fact he had been trying to help when that had happened. And now he was the one needing Harry, not the other way around…

Harry got to his feet, his eyes still attached to Ron's closed ones, wishing against reason that those eyes would open and Ron would talk to him—and that he would find out that nothing had changed, that the war had never occurred, and that he was just in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, waiting for Ron to recover from a Bludger to the head. He was tired, in more senses than one, and he couldn't even afford to rest.

"You'll wake up soon, I'll make sure of it," he said to Ron, and once more, the sound of his own voice resounding in the dead room made him feel rather stupid.

It seemed all was said. Harry threw a last, mechanical glance around the bedroom, filled with presents from Ron's daily visitors. Then he reached down and mussed Ron's too-neat hair.

* * *

Lost for ideas, Harry Apparated to the graveyard of Godric's Hollow. He had not been there in months. More than anything else the small cemetery was a symbol of his lonely years, a place he used to go to when he felt closer to the dead than to the living.

Now the dead haunted his thoughts again, and by a bizarre twist of fate many of them were buried where he stood. Gryffindor, slayer of Queen Cassiopeia's servant. His mother, the last Knight of Isiames. And—

_James Potter__, born 27 March 1960, died 31 October 1981_

And also his father.

Harry crouched next to the grave and ran a thumb over James Potter's name. The marble was probably cold enough to burn, but of course he couldn't feel it—not anymore. It was strange, how he hadn't thought once of his father until Robards had brought it up. He should have been intrigued by James picking up Pallas's sword; in fact he had been, at the time, but the Song of the Trees had barely ended that the memory had faded into the background. The idea Harry had of James Potter simply didn't belong in the murky world of Isiames. He seemed too spontaneous, thoughtless, self-confident, happy, in other words too devoid of any mysterious quality to fit in the picture.

Harry traced the P of 'Potter' with a finger that the cold turned blue. Rich and loved, only child, popular at school, good student and Quidditch player; in the end, winning over his wife probably had been the only conflict James had ever had to go through. Even Voldemort's first reign hadn't been a conflict. The good thing about Voldemort is that he made it simple for you: either you fought him, or you joined him. You could not stay neutral.

So Lily truly was James Potter's only trial… A wry smile stretched Harry's lips. That trial had been even more difficult than he originally thought, since apparently, she had got him kicked out of the Aurors' training programme.

Which was odd.

Robards was right: a wizard with James's talent would not have been kicked out in a time of war, especially not for something as ridiculous as a duel for Lily's honour. He would have been punished, yes—there were tales of rogue Aurors that found themselves posted to Greenland—but not fired. Not unless he had committed a crime… Had he killed his opponent? But no… Robards would have mentioned it…

Come to think of it, Harry couldn't quite recall what Robards had said exactly; probably because he had been too sick and too impatient to listen.

Well, it seemed even rash, arrogant James held his share of mystery after all… Although it remained to be seen whether his getting fired was relevant at all in the big picture. For all Harry knew it might just be an isolated fact—bizarre, but with no link whatsoever to Pallas's sword.

Harry's eyes dropped to the name carved right under his father's; a doubt suddenly froze his train of thoughts. James's duel had been about Lily.

He reached out again, this time brushing his fingers against his mother's name. Was that the link he was looking for?

The marble shone wetly wherever it had been spared by the dark-grey lichen, hard, smooth and impenetrable to Harry's enquiring gaze; a dead stone tiredly reflecting the light of an invisible sun, bleak and white.

And—purple.

Harry snatched his hand back just before a spell impacted on his mother's name. A detonation slammed against his eardrums, his nose filled with a smell of burning rubber. With a startled gasp he jerked backwards, stumbled, fell heavily on a blanket of rotten leaves; the second purple hex flew a couple of inches over his head.

Harry rolled behind the beech tree that stood beside his parents' grave. Wand in hand, he crouched behind the trunk and took aim—and the tree groaned and swayed as it was hit by another spell. Lumps of snow fell from its shaken branches, hitting Harry's shoulders and head with sad, wet sounds.

Harry angrily wiped the worst of the snow from his glasses and fired back with a simple Stunner, in what he guessed was the shooter's direction; but before he could hear his spell make contact, a tiny pop of Disapparition was echoed by the marble graves.

Harry swore and turned on his heel again, leaning his shoulders against the tree trunk to prevent any surprises that may come from behind. He didn't think his attacker—whoever he was—had gone away. Disapparating from one spot to re-Apparate only a short distance away was a classical tactic to destabilise an opponent.

Harry started circling the tree, always keeping his back to the trunk as he carefully scanned his surroundings; but the graveyard was absolutely motionless. Instead of relief, uneasiness settled in the pit of his stomach. It couldn't have been that easy. It never was.

He frowned as he realised he had not heard his opponent Apparate again. Was he gone for good? Or had he managed to mask the Apparating pop? No, that wasn't possible… If he could stifle the noise, he wouldn't have let Harry hear him Disapparate in the first place…

He wouldn't—unless he wanted to confuse Harry or lure him into believing the danger had gone. Have him relax his watch.

Then hit him from a spot he wasn't watching.

Harry glanced aside at the beech tree he leant on.

Without thinking he threw himself down. The snow around him shone purple again; another detonation rang painfully into his skull. Snow and frozen dirt exploded outwards, obscuring his vision for a couple of long, interminable seconds.

When he was able to see again he already had a shield ready—and he had not fully stood up that two hexes hit it hard in the middle, sending him a couple of staggering steps backwards. His attacker sent curse after curse from his perch in the branches of the beech tree, which stood completely still whereas the entire graveyard shook with the exchange of magical blows.

_He Froze the tree,_ Harry thought in a remote corner of his mind. _That's why I didn't feel it when he Apparated into it._

He had bigger worries, however, than an immobile tree. His shield was weakening under the blows, and his wand smoked in his hand as he fought to maintain his defences; they would not hold for long if the other man kept up that infernal pace. With desperate haste he dropped the shield, fired two random curses as fast as he could manage and entered the battle.

He had never seen someone fight so fast. The curses weren't particularly dangerous in themselves, but they never stopped coming, trying to force Harry into an exclusively defensive stance he knew he couldn't afford taking. The incantations blurred in his mind and he had trouble drawing all the required movements precisely and completely. His adversary kept the upper hand with derisory easiness while he, Harry, struggled to keep up; in such conditions there was little room left for creativity, and he tended to fall into a pattern of spells, always the same, that made him dangerously predictable.

He was aware of all that and he was starting to panic. Two zigzagging curses had missed him by an inch. His cloak was completely burnt away on one side. The ground between the tree and himself shook as coloured lights burst back and forth, crossing, colliding, exploding in showers of sparks. The air was full of the acrid scent of burnt clothes, of hissing sounds, whistles and detonations that left him with a constant buzzing in his ears. The mess of snow and dirt slowly melted into slippery mud under his feet. He wasn't fast enough.

His opponent's aspect only served to unnerve him further. His medium-sized figure was robed, cloaked and hooded in a bland, unremarkable grey, and he sat back against a slowly ascending branch of the beech tree in an almost nonchalant posture. His arm switched and flicked and waved without rest, his wrist bending this way and that as though absentmindedly. And still a flurry of curses came out of his wand with no discernable pattern, all precisely aiming at Harry—a static, easy target from his vantage point, desperately struggling to keep the pace.

Harry forced himself into motion, shooting then jumping back, then aside, then aside again, over the graves and behind them, in a kind of clumsy dance punctuated by the spells he fired at the beech tree. His aim went completely wild at first and the graveyard filled with the dull sound of curses impacting the marble tombs. Several hit the tree, but not a single twig did so much as quiver: the Freezing Charm was holding fast. Harry skidded to a halt and fired a Binder at his opponent's head. The thick ropes rocketed forward, twisting and hissing like hemp-made snakes, only to be disrupted in midair as the wizard in grey cast his first shield since the beginning of the encounter.

Gradually, a subtle change occurred between the two duellists. The fight didn't feel so frenetic or uneven anymore. The pace hadn't slowed at all, but Harry's adversary was compelled to follow the young Auror's dance across the graveyard—if only by straightening and twisting his body around—and had lost a bit of his lead. Harry, in turn, was gaining ground; his heart beat fast but steadily, his moves were more efficient and more precise, his head clearer, free of the panic he had felt earlier. He was getting into the rhythm at last.

A Blasting Curse finally shattered the charm encasing the old tree in ice, and it creaked and groaned, its branches swinging as though taken in a wild wind. The wizard in grey dodged another Binder, met a Slashing Spell with one of his own and blocked a Whirlwind with a shield—then jumped to the ground with insolent grace. He did not slow down for a second to catch his breath, firing instead two Stunners and another spell smelling of burnt rubber. Harry dived and rolled aside behind an imposing granite tomb; the two Stunners hit the stone with loud, dull noises, while the third spell chimed like a clear bell.

"What's that spell again—I'm sure I know it," Harry breathed out.

A quiet snort answered him, sounding much,much closer than what he expected. Harry lifted his head and blocked an Inky-Hood at the very last second, before scrambling to his feet, a Whirlwind already shooting out of his wand.

"No way he could run this fast," he said aloud, over the wailing sound made by his Whirlwind; for some reason, fractioned thoughts seemed to tumble from his mind to his mouth of their own accord. He added two Slashing Spells and a Confounding Charm for good measure. "Apparated."

His opponent emitted a kind of grunt. Harry's Confounding Charm did not seem to have any effect whatsoever on the precision and speed of his spell-casting.

"What's the day of the week?" the stranger suddenly asked, in a confused, absentminded tone.

Ah, so the Charm had had _some_ effect after all.

"Wednesday," Harry replied without thinking, then carried on with two muttered incantations; it was a few seconds before the pitch of his opponent's voice struck him and he blurted out, "Wait a second—you're a _woman?_"

His last two spells were brutally deflected and hit the ground with a detonation that shook the old graves. Two balls of fire flew roaring at his head; a powerful jet of water put one out, but the other was barely deflected and came dangerously close before crashing to the snowy ground with a hiss of vapour. Harry smelt singed hair.

"No need to get annoyed," he said with a broad gesture. In the wake of his wand appeared a dozen of iron nails that tore through the air toward the witch in grey. "You've got a hood on. _Confringo!_"

A tall stone cross exploded with the strength of a small bomb, adding chips of stone to the nails hurling towards the witch's face. It was a full minute before Harry's ears stopped ringing.

"You always talk so much when someone's killing you?" the witch asked.

"Always nice to know who's trying to do you in—_Avis!_"

Six tiny, sharp-beaked birds shot from Harry's wand and dived towards the witch with angry screeches.

"…Though I still have… no idea who the hell you are," he added in two low, painfully expelled breaths, speaking more to himself than to her.

"Believe it or not, Potter…" The witch conjured a large cage that closed around the six birds with a snapping sound. "It's nothing personal."

"Oh good," Harry panted. A precisely aimed spell shattered the cage, sending the birds screeching again at the woman. "You had me worried for a minute."

"I'm just providing a service. _Nassa!_"

An immense net sprang into being, wheeling around at nauseating speed as it spread in the air in front of Harry. In a flash of panic, his wand blurred into five Slashing Spells extending in all directions—and pieces of the net fell around him, uselessly grasping the ground, some of them binding tightly the little birds he had previously conjured. The smell of burnt rubber assaulted his nose again and he fired two Stunners, narrowly deflecting the purple spells.

"Ahh," he said as they settled back in the fast-paced duel. "Hired wand."

"Well spotted."

"Nice… I was worried I had yet another enemy…"

The howling of another Whirlwind cut short the conversation for a minute.

"Who's paying you?" Harry yelled.

"Professional secrecy, Potter… I'm sure you understand…"

Harry fell quiet and focused on the fight; the spells they used were getting increasingly brutal, and he felt the mercenary was as eager as himself to end it all. But none of them succeeded into taking the upper hand—and Harry was tiring.

"How much?" he desperately called.

The witch's wand slashed the air diagonally, sending two bolts of lightning speeding at him. He deflected one and ducked to avoid the other.

"My pay's good, thanks for worrying," she said, but there was a strained quality to her voice that hadn't been there before. Harry had to conjure a shield to stop her next spell; if he didn't find a way to stop the duel soon, he would lose the pace and be reduced to erect shield after shield—precisely what he had avoided at all costs since the beginning of the fight.

"That good?" he insisted.

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

He saw her hand start the complex motion of a Confounding Charm and started the counter-curse at top speed, stopping her just in time.

"You hesitated," he pressed on. "The money can't be that good."

"Believe me, it is. I'm not cheap," she replied through gritted teeth.

"Prove it. How much?"

An explosion sent large chunks of marble flying toward Harry, exposing at the same time the deep hole the broken slab had protected. Harry caught every piece with an Expulsion Charm; the mercenary cried out and dived to the ground as the sharp-edged stones flew right over her head.

"Five thousand Galleons," she yelled back.

"Double it!" Harry shouted over the noise.

The last piece of marble rebounded on the frozen ground and went to roll into a crater.

Then nothing moved again. The only sound was the two fighters' heavy breathings and Harry's heart hammering against his ribs.

"I'll… double it," Harry repeated as he struggled to catch his breath. "I have the money for it… and enough connections that no one will come investigate."

"Not even your Head Auror?" the mercenary shot back, her wand still pointed straight at his chest.

Harry shook his head.

"Not even him."

For a few unbearably long minutes, his proposition was met only with suspicious silence. After their furious duel the quiet was pressing on Harry's ears like a physical presence; it was that stuffed, cotton-like silence that always went with soft snowfalls. Flakes drifted past him to land delicately on the ground, as though patiently trying to cover the damage they had done—the torn-open graves, the ground pierced with jagged-edged craters, the burnt bushes and uprooted small trees…

Then the woman in grey dropped her wand.

"You have a deal. But if you don't pay me, I'll have to kill you."

"Perfect," Harry wheezed out. "A death threat. I can live with that."

A quiet snort came from under the grey hood. "Fine then… Well… I wouldn't say it was a pleasure to meet you… but it was entertaining enough."

"Yeah," grumbled Harry, finally straightening up and turning to the ravaged graveyard. "Entertaining is the word… You're not breathing hard at all…"

"It was a nice warm-up," said the mercenary with an affected nonchalance that made Harry want to curse her head off. "What are you doing?"

"Repairing the damage. What does it look like? _Accio!_"

The largest piece of marble landed at Harry's feet; he repaired the slab in two tired waves of his wand and Levitated it back over the open grave.

"Why?" said the witch.

"Don't think the dead deserve a little peace?"

"No. They're dead. Bags of bones."

"Figured. Don't get in my way then."

The mercenary snorted again. "I won't get in your way unless you fail to pay, Potter. I'll just give you a Gringotts account and I'll be gone."

"Just like that?" Harry said, incredulous. "I pay you ten thousand Galleons for—"

"—not killing you," she completed. "You're a fair fighter, but you're a baby. You'd have gotten tired. Made a mistake. I've been fighting for years, you can't win against me."

"Wait—"

"You're more fun than my previous employer though, so I sincerely wish I don't have to visit again. Pay on time."

"Hold on," Harry snapped. "What would you say to fifteen thousand Galleons?"

She tensed immediately; Harry could almost feel her suspicious gaze piercing him through the narrow slit of her hood.

"You can't pay that much," she said. "I accepted your first offer because I know you've got some money, but even you don't have that much. Don't try to mess with me."

"I never said I'd be the one to pay all of it," said Harry. "I'll give you ten thousand Galleons, and your first employer can give you the five others."

"The five thousands were for bringing you back to her place for a fun séance of questioning, Potter. You're begging for a Cruciatus Curse?"

So it was a woman._  
_  
"Not really," he admitted. "But what if you brought me back to her and got your money, but—ah—forgot to take away my wand?"

"That's—"

She paused. Harry held his breath.

"—not ethical at all. But rather tempting."

Harry fought not to snort as the hired killer mentioned her ethics, but did not quite succeed.

"Don't mock, kid, I can still change my mind," the mercenary snapped. "Now if you've finished playing in the dirt, we can go. I don't have all day."

* * *

One thing was certain: in terms of paranoia, the hired wand could have given Madeye Moody lessons. She insisted on Apparating to various locations all over the country in case Aurors would have gotten the chance to 'tag' them—and while Harry could only admire her caution, he persisted in thinking appearing in the middle of a stinking swamp was entirely superfluous. By the time they finally reached their destination, he was aggravated enough to wonder if he shouldn't have just let her win. It would have been faster and much more efficient, not to mention considerably cheaper.

His annoyance flew out of his mind as he looked round to see the dark, haughty form of Malfoy Manor silhouetted against the blank sky.

He needed a few seconds to realise what that meant; truth was, with everything that had happened, he had completely forgotten Narcissa Malfoy wanted him dead.

Two fingers snapped under his nose. "Wake up," the mercenary said. "Hide your wand wherever you want and cross your wrists behind your back."

Harry threw her a look.

"_You_ came up with that deal," the woman pointed out. "So now, you can either trust me or walk away."

"Well, I know what I wanted to know," said Harry, nodding towards the manor. "And things aren't as complicated as they could've been. If you don't want to take any more risks, you can walk away now, and you'll still get the ten thousands."

"You're going to try and get in there?"

"None of your business anymore."

"Yes, it is." The mercenary rolled her eyes. "If you get in there, you have a good chance of getting yourself killed. And I won't get paid by either party. So pay up now, and I'll go."

"You know I can't do that," Harry said tensely.

"Then you're stuck with me." She looked him up and down coolly, as though appraising him. "I'll make sure you come out of it alive. And I'll collect my fifteen thousands."

Harry wiped the sweat off his brow with a slightly trembling hand. The adrenaline rush of the duel had dissipated and he was back to feeling nauseous and feverish. The longing for the Isiame city came back, so strong that he nearly considered taking the mercenary to his vault there and then, leaving Narcissa to her fate. And then he could go back where he belonged. Did he really fear a simple witch? He wasn't of her kind; he was much _more_ than a wizard, after all.

He blinked, stunned at his own thought. It sounded jarring—going against everything he'd ever believed—like a foreign body someone had slipped inside his head. _More than a wizard?_ Only minutes ago, he had nearly been overcome by a witch in a fair duel… It was more than stupid, it was dangerously arrogant. What was more, the phrase stirred something in his memory that he didn't like. Something indistinct, ugly and rotten.

Harry's heart quickened in sudden, unreasoned fear. He was losing his mind.

"Fast, Potter," the mercenary said.

She was right; his nostalgia for the Isiame city was starting to cloud his judgement. There was no time to waste.

Harry slid his wand up his left sleeve, sticking the tip of it between two folded fingers. When he had put his hands behind his back, his right wrist covering his left to hide the visible part of his wand, the mercenary pressed the tip of her wand into his chest; he squeezed his eyes shut.

The spell cracked like a whip against his ears. He just hoped this wasn't the biggest mistake of his life.

* * *

The air smelt of wood smoke.

His feet didn't touch the floor. Nor did any part of his body.

"I expected you to come back sooner."

"He's an Auror. I made sure he wasn't tagged before I took him back here. It takes some time."

His neck was bent, his chin resting on his chest. His entire body hung limp.

"Did he put up a fight?"

"Yes."

A Mobilicorpus… He expected as much, but it made things more difficult.

"Neither of you seem too beaten-up though."

"You wanted him in one piece, if I remember correctly. Now pay me, and I'll be on my way."

There was a pause.

"On the mantelpiece."

Footsteps edged away. Gold chinked.

"Are you going to count them?" sniffed Narcissa Malfoy's haughty voice.

There was no answer. Harry opened his eyes a fraction: a darkened room swam into view, its details blurred by the curtain of his own eyelashes. The only light came from the chimney where a fire died down. A heavy armchair was silhouetted against the reddish glow, and in it sat Narcissa Malfoy, pale and blonde, a clear spot against the dark fabric. The grey form of the hired wand faced her, barely three feet from Harry's hanging body.

The mercenary was holding something, and from the chinking sounds that reached Harry's ears, she was indeed counting the gold. Harry carefully tested the bond around his wrists; he had barely pulled on it that he felt it loosen. A wave of relief rose to his head, nearly making him dizzy. The mercenary had been true to her word.

"Are you finished?" Narcissa snapped.

"Yes."

"Good. You know the way out."

The grey spot in Harry's vision drifted away until he couldn't see it anymore. Then Narcissa's pale figure rose and drew closer to him. Harry tensed.

"Wait a second," Narcissa suddenly called towards the door, startling Harry rather badly. "Is he Stunned?"

"Yes."

"Good. Close the door on your way out."

The door shut. Harry heard the mercenary's footsteps resounding further and further away—but there was something wrong about the sound, something forged, and he had no doubt she was still standing guard behind the door; making sure he survived to pay his debt.

Narcissa's white face slid back into his field of vision. She moved slowly, cautiously, and although his mostly-closed lids did not allow him to see the details of her face, he thought he could feel her stare, wide and intense, devouring him. She took several deep breaths; Harry could practically taste her anticipation. As though in answer, his own heartbeat picked up, the muscles in his back tensing uselessly against the Mobilicorpus.

"Well," she murmured, standing very, very close to him. He could smell her perfume, makeup, and hair-potion all at once. "I think it's time for someone to pay…"

Harry's stomach clenched tightly as he felt himself drop; without thinking he brought his hands in front of him and folded his knees, managing to control his fall into a roll. The floor trembled under his weight. Narcissa's shocked scream rang, high and shrill, into his ears. In a second he had whipped his wand towards her—then his own voice exploded, high and tense and much louder than himself expected—

"_Expelliarmus!_"

The world settled again around him.

He crouched, unharmed, on a rich carpet covering the floor of what looked like a small tea room. His wand was held before him and pointed at Narcissa Malfoy, who had slumped against the far wall in a heap of purple silk and blonde hair; he spotted her wand lying on the floor on the other side of the room. There was no sound at all except his own ragged breathing and the wild beating of his heart.

Harry cautiously straightened up and, after hesitating for a second, conjured thick ropes that coiled around Narcissa's ankles and wrists. The action did him some good: he felt he was in control of the situation at last.

He drew a long breath to calm down and glanced around him in search of the exit. A tapestry-covered door was ajar near the corner closest to Narcissa; if he oriented correctly, the mercenary had walked out that door—and was most likely waiting outside. _She_ would know the way out… However, whether it was due to his lingering nervousness or to the claustrophobic feeling he got from standing in that darkened, stuffy room, the idea of putting his life between the mercenary's hands again was repugnant to Harry. He had to get ahead of her somehow, and that meant having a plan B. But there was no window in the room and he didn't trust the chimney to take him to the roof.

A flutter of tapestry caught his eye. Keeping his wand trained on the door, just in case, he backed away until his back hit the wall and scanned the room for an opening.

And for the first time, behind an armchair that had at first hidden it from view, he saw a hole. It was a black hole opened half into the wall and half into the floor, large enough to let a grown man through. Although Harry couldn't feel it, the blackness seemed icy-cold, a cold that oozed out of the hole and invaded the room like mould. It attracted him, like a giant mouth sucking in everything around it.

A soft groan made him snap out of his morbid fascination. Narcissa Malfoy was shifting on the floor, struggling uselessly against her bonds and attempting to push her hair out of her eyes.

Harry suddenly realised he had no idea what he wanted to do with her. Neutralise her, this was certain—he didn't need more hired killers on his back at the moment—but how? He doubted he could talk her out of it; locking her up quietly in a safe place would be difficult, as she had too many connections, including within the Ministry itself; and given half the Ministry was out to get him, it was a risk he wasn't prepared to take.

Could he kill her?

_No_.

He was surprised himself at the force of his reaction. There was no reasoning behind it, not even a resurgence of his battered morals, just a pure reflex of rejection. He wouldn't kill that woman; not like that, in cold blood and in this dark little room, with this gaping hole ready to swallow corpses that would need to be disposed of.

The mental picture conjured by these thoughts brought his heart to his lips. With an effort of will he shoved the sinister idea to the very back of his mind, lifted his wand, and brought it into alignment with the blonde head.

She was blinking now, her pale eyes staring up at him, her features blank. He didn't say anything. He waited until comprehension dawned on her face, followed, briefly, by rage; then defeat.

"You've got me here, Potter," she said. "So kill me."

Harry silently shook his head.

"You didn't have so many scruples for my son," she spat. "Or my husband."

"I had no choice," Harry said. He shook his head again to clear it. He felt sicker than ever.

"I'm not giving you any either. Kill me now, or I'll have you dead. Today if I can manage it, or in a month, or ten years from now. I will never rest until either of us is buried. _Kill me, Potter._" Her mouth twisted in an ugly grimace; rage came back, bringing a harsh glint to her eyes. "What's the matter? The great hero of the wizarding world hesitates? What's your problem, Potter—is it that I'm a woman? Why won't you kill me? _Why won't you end it?_"

She struggled more forcibly against her bonds. Her features were distorted, her eternal haughtiness shattered, and the only thing left behind was a woman wild with animalistic fury. Harry's mind was numb. He couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't look away from her face—and although he could not remember consciously wanting to do so, he felt himself take a step back. Then another.

He couldn't break from the feverish haze. He felt as powerless as in a nightmare. He was losing his mind.

A sound reached to him from far away, another world, another life… A soft, musical chiming sound, so very familiar yet so absurdly strange—a doorbell.

Narcissa threw her head back and laughed, a laughter that sounded like sobs, as desperate and insane as Harry felt. "My guests are here, Potter—I was going to kill you myself, then have dinner with the most famous wizards and witches of our society while your corpse rotted under our feet! And I was going to enjoy every bite of that dinner!"

The doorbell rang again, Narcissa gave a wordless scream in answer, and Harry felt himself backing off. His legs moved of their own accord, his brain was frozen in a stupor, unable to stop him. Narcissa's struggling form edged away.

His right heel met the void of the black hole and he swayed, then stilled.

He felt hot and hazy, and as seconds ticked by the world seemed dreamier and more unreal than ever; by now the main thing he was aware of was the void behind him. It exerted on him the same odd attraction he'd often felt when walking across bridges or leaning over a tower parapet. But through the mist and confusion his brain had managed to process something—_there was death in that hole!_

His robes were taken in the draught and fluttered about him. Something very deep inside of him started screaming in raging determination, refusing to yield to the pull of gravity. Harry's left arm swung aside and slapped the wall next to him, desperately grasping at the tapestry covering it.

At the far wall, the door slammed open and the witch in grey burst in, her face grim and her wand held out. She glanced almost distractedly at the screaming Narcissa then looked up to where Harry stood on the edge of the hole; her eyes widened.

Malfoy Manor exploded.

A deflagration louder than anything Harry had ever heard tore the air in halves. The floor rose and undulated under Harry's feet; he lost his footing and fell backwards.

He fell like a stone into the hungry blackness of the hole. The air was full of screams and explosions, of the rumble of centuries-old walls collapsing, and the growl of fire—fire that was starting to paint the darkness in glowing reds and yellows.

It lasted only a few seconds, before he hit water feet-first with a great splash and it all went quiet and dark again.

Water.

He was sinking into _water. _

The fall—the water—this was Malfoy's tower, the old tower in which Lance and Harry had fallen once, and where Draco Malfoy himself had met his death.

He was drowning.

Harry's eyes shot open again. He was drowning. He needed to breathe. His survival instinct crushed the nightmare-filled madness, leaving nothing but the urge to act, to look for air. He swung his arms wildly, fighting the gentle pull of the water, his eyes lifted towards the dim red-gold glow over his head. Air—there was air to be found up there.

A full minute of frantic swimming went by before he felt his hand pierce the surface; next second he emerged and sucked in an avid breath.

The inside of the tower was alit with the fires ravaging Malfoy Manor. Flames escaped in short bursts from narrow openings in the circular wall—including, most likely, the hole Harry had fallen from. Great chunks of the wall had been blown off, letting out rains of ashes and columns of black smoke that coiled up the neck of the tower. As Harry watched a gust of wind parted the smoke, revealing the roof; it was ablaze.

Harry moved his arms and legs to keep himself afloat. His situation was difficult but not desperate; granted, being trapped in a burning manor was not the best situation in the world, but on the upside he appeared to be in the only place within the manor where the air was still breathable. Nevertheless, the faster he'd get out of there…

He looked round and spotted the small jetty on which he had killed Malfoy, three months before. If he recalled correctly a passage opened in the wall behind it and led up to the courtyard—the only difficulty was to find it.

He had barely started to swim towards the jetty when a great crack made him look up sharply. The black smoke parted again to let through an enormous beam, swirling and burning as it fell, casting a new, bright light on the dark and dampened walls. Harry dived out of the way.

The beam fell into the water with a loud hiss of vapour; waves from the point of impact threw Harry against the wall, further away from the jetty. He managed to resurface and reflexively looked up—only to see the rest of the roof falling towards him at vertiginous speed, huge masses of flame and smoke hissing and roaring as they dived, leaving no way to escape.

He heard himself scream, and felt his wand vibrate. The wall of the tower was blown outwards. He saw a patch of white sky.

Then the water rose to meet the fire.

A gigantic wave formed itself out of the still water and hit the burning beams, generating torrents of vapour that rose in the air with a piercing hiss. Harry shielded his eyes with one arm. He felt the backwash when the roof finally fell into the water; a second later his shoulder collided with a stone wall.

He opened his eyes. The air was full of vapour and ashes, but a new light fell on the tormented surface of the water, revealing various things, and bits of things, that floated there. His spell had pierced a new opening in the wall of the tower some ten feet above him, where apparently the ground level was. He waved his wand as precisely as he could while painstakingly maintaining himself afloat. A thin cord shot from his wand and fastened itself to the jagged edge of the opening.

"Someone's in there!"

The man's voice so unexpectedly burst into the tower that Harry nearly let go of the rope. There was the sound of hurried feet, then a tall, square figure in the Aurors' red robes framed itself in the opening.

"Hey there!" he shouted. "Need help?"

"No, I'm fine!" Harry shouted back.

"Hold on, I'm gonna Levitate you! Don't move!"

"Why ask if I need help if you're going to help me anyway," Harry muttered. He had half a mind to counter the man's Charm and climb by himself, but wrote it off as a bad idea. The last thing he needed now was another antagonist.

The Auror's Levitating Charm wasn't anything fancy—Harry jerked around a little on his way up—but it had the advantage of doing the job without shoving him into the torrents of vapour still arising from the water. Harry finally landed clumsily on the solid ground, lost his balance and fell. _Nothing fancy, indeed._

"You all right?" the Auror asked, sounding considerably relieved his Charm had worked.

Harry nodded distractedly while casting a look around. His spell had blown a huge hole into the side of the tower, spraying the neat lawn of the manor with chunks of stone. The white winter sky was veiled by thick clouds of smoke that coiled up from the manor. From what he could see, half of the building had been blown to bits by the explosion, and the rest was on fire. He glimpsed at a bloodied body wearing black robes on the lawn, among the rubble, before the smoke rolled before it and hid it again from view.

The Auror chose that moment to practically below in his ear, "Hey, you're sure you're okay?"

Harry started and instinctively leant back. "Yes, thank you," he said; surprise made his tone scathing. The Auror looked a bit vexed.

"You weren't answering," he explained. "I asked you what your name was."

"Hhng. Help me up," Harry grunted, holding out one hand.

It had finally occurred to him what the man's presence meant. The explosion had been huge. Doubtless a full patrol of Aurors had rushed in to investigate. If he was identified… Well, he still wasn't sure the Aurors had received instructions to arrest him, but he'd rather not take the risk.

The Auror wasn't anyone Harry knew, but he looked young and nervous, although he did his best to hide it. After a second of hesitation he seemed to decide that Harry wasn't a threat to him and seized his hand.

"Wait—whoa!" the Auror blurted out, snatching his hand back. "Your hand!"

"What—" Harry's voice died away as he reflexively turned his hand to look at it. All over the fingers, palm and forearm, the skin was raw and bright red.

"You don't _feel_ anything?" the Auror asked, in a voice that climbed an octave in panic.

Harry stared at his burnt hand and arm. _The vapour…_

"But if you don't feel pain, it's a bad sign, isn't it? Damn it, I… Look, stay there, don't move, okay? There might be more burns. I'll get a Healer, okay? Okay?"

Harry looked up. The young man's eyes darted in all directions, as though he hoped he could call over a Healer without having to leave Harry alone. His weight kept shifting from one leg to the other.

"Hey," Harry said.

"There must be one around. It won't take long."

"Who's your head of patrol?" asked Harry patiently.

The Auror looked at him again; his panicked expression ebbed away as he frowned pensively.

"Auror Tonks," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Because it's likely your head of patrol knows how to deal with first or even second-degree burns. The Healer's probably busy with people who need their care more than I do."

"That… makes sense…" The young man's frown deepened. "You from the Ministry?"

"I worked there for a while," Harry said shortly. "Look, I don't mean to be pushy, but I've got a whole arm burnt. Could you…?"

"Oh. Sure." The Auror threw him a last thoughtful look. "Don't move, I'll get her."

Harry had no intention to move. He was emotionally and physically drained out. He recalled these moments in Malfoy Manor when he had—gone insane, in fact. It had been as though every feeling he ever had, every primal reaction had suddenly overcome their normal boundaries; he had reacted to his surroundings ten times more intensely than usual. His reason, his ability to think and take decisions, had been drowned in that weird emotional flow.

In short, for a few moments he had been one big sounding box for sensations. It had taken a fall into a well to tear him out of that state.

These crazy instants had coincided with a peak in his physical illness. Right before he fell, up in Narcissa Malfoy's small tea room, he had barely been able to stand; whereas now… He didn't know if it was connected to his going through icy water, but he no longer felt so feverish and the nausea had left him.

He wearily took off his glasses to rub at his eyes. He needed to go back to the Isiame city. There, at least, he would be able to think again without having to dread another delirium.

Harry put his glasses back on his nose and looked round with a kind of tired determination. The faster he'd be done here, the better. He would have taken off already, but the young Auror had seen him and would know he had fled; maybe he would even recognise him when the panic wore off. Moreover, Harry was a bit worried about the burns. They were the one injury he didn't know how to deal with. He'd never quite mastered the technique.

He was lucky Tonks was the head of patrol. The reason he'd asked for the commanding Auror was that he hoped he would know them; if so, it would be much easier to talk them into taking him to Robards. Tonks, however, was unhoped-for.

He soon spotted her walking briskly through the rubble, the rookie who had taken him out of the tower trotting at her side; he caught her gaze and shook his head ever so slightly. He saw her expression change. For a second he was afraid she hadn't seen his signal—or worse, that she had seen it but would decide to reveal his identity anyway, in all innocence.

She halted and sent the rookie off with a few orders. Then she turned on the spot, met Harry's eyes again, squared her shoulders and resumed her walk at a slower pace. It looked as though she was trying to make up her mind. Harry crossed his fingers into his lap.

She reached his side and crouched so her face was level with his. Her hair was the mousy-brown colour Harry associated with her depressed moments, and she had carefully smoothed her expression into a neutral mask. For the first time Harry felt a twinge of concern. Tonks rarely bothered to hide what she was feeling.

"Well, here you are," she said, in a monotonous voice that perfectly matched her lack of expression. Harry's feeling of malaise redoubled.

"Hello, Tonks."

"Care to explain what this mess is?" She jerked her head towards the smoking ruins.

"I could, but it'd take a while. Listen, you need to call Robards."

"The Chief? Why—"

"He sent me on a mission," Harry said in an urgent whisper—_why wasn't she more reactive?_ "Unofficial. That's how I got in trouble with the ninth floor—"

"Your trouble isn't limited to the ninth floor," Tonks interrupted. "Technically, I should arrest you on direct orders from the Minister."

"Look, Tonks—"

"_Shut_ up. Unless you can explain to me how Hermione found herself in St. Mungo's thanks to a spell coming from your wand."

Harry fell quiet. Tonks's self-control had slipped a little when she had said Hermione's name, her voice now vibrated with anger. He took the blow.

He should have expected it. He hadn't seen her in months after all, who knew what she had heard about him, what she'd deduced… Her reaction didn't please him in any way, though he could hardly blame her for it; however it still reassured him, bizarrely. Her apparent lack of feeling had made her look like a stranger. On the other hand, he could deal with an angry Tonks.

He held out his right arm.

"Can you do something about this? Please?" he said.

Tonks glared at him. Seconds flew by as they silently looked at each other, and Harry fought not to squirm on the spot. He was feeling sick again.

"You look like crap," Tonks spat. But she gingerly took his arm and processed to heal it all the same. Harry sighed in relief.

"Would you have asked Hermione that question if _I_ had ended up in St. Mungo's?" he asked as she worked.

"Don't try to turn the issue around. Of course I would've."

"That's good to know. Because—and I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me—that's exactly what would've happened if I hadn't been faster than her."

Tonks reached inside her scarlet robes and took out a pot of glass, half-full of an orange substance. She stuck her tongue between her lips as she carefully unscrewed the glass lid.

"Tonks, Hermione and I are investigating the same subject, and because of the ninth-floor's stand—"

"Stop moving." Tonks spread the thick orange paste across Harry's forearm and palm, then meticulously coated each of his fingers in it. "Been doing that ever since I got here, and three are dead anyway," she muttered irritably.

"What kind of bomb do you reckon it was?" asked Harry, distracted for a second from his own worries. "Looks like it blasted half the manor away and set fire to the rest."

"Sticky-Fire bomb, probably." Tonks wiped her eyes on the inside of her arm, both of her hands being covered in orange paste. "It killed pretty much everyone in the Manor. When Ackerley came to find me, I was just digging up the pieces of Narcissa Malfoy."

Harry's stomach turned over.

"I was in the same room as her when the bomb went off," he murmured. "The floor rose then tore like paper. I'd never seen an explosion that powerful."

Tonks looked up at him sharply. "How on earth did you survive it?"

"Got thrown through a kind of large window into the tower there…" Harry waved at the disembowelled tower with his free arm. "It was their way of discreetly getting rid of stuff they didn't want other people to find. Like corpses, probably."

"You were incredibly lucky."

"Often am," Harry said with a weak smile. Tonks didn't smile back.

"Hey," Harry said tensely. A sudden thought tied his stomach into tight knots. "You're not thinking _I_ put the bomb there, right?"

Tonks wiped her hands on the grass; her eyes shunned his. "It—doesn't sound like anything you'd do," she finally admitted. "But neither does putting Hermione in St. Mungo's."

"Tonks—" Harry abruptly cut off and shut his eyes as the ground pitched and tossed around him. All of sudden the stench of burning became unbearable; bile rose up his throat. He swallowed with difficulty.

"You really do look like crap," said Tonks's voice.

"I'm sick," he croaked out. He reopened his eyes to see his surroundings had more or less stabilised; Tonks's pale face stood out, still angry, but also confused. Harry even thought he saw concern for him in her gaze, but wondered if it wasn't only because he desperately wished to see it there.

"It's still me," Harry said in a low, suppliant voice. "I haven't changed. Look, I can explain everything I did—and when the time comes I can set everything right again. But I have no time now; I need to see Robards before the ninth-floor gets me. It's important."

Tonks stared at him with a frown on her face.

"I know everything I did lately sounds insane," Harry insisted. "But there's a point to it. And I'm the only one able to do it, but I can't do anything from a Ministry cell…"

"_Auror Tonks!__"_

Tonks pivoted on one knee to look behind her. "What?" she called back.

"We need your help here!"

"Tonks, please," Harry whispered quickly. "Trust me."

She rose to her feet, her back to him. "Find Ackerley and take him there!" she shouted. "I'll be with you in a minute!"

She turned back to Harry, grabbed his arm and pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off. "You're going to take my Portkey home," she said, her face inches from his. "You'll wait for me there. I'll join you after we're done here, and we can have a longer conversation."

She stuck a small object into his valid hand. "It'll set off in ten seconds." She looked at him enquiringly. "Can I trust you to do exactly what I said?"

A last chance, thought Harry. She was giving him a last chance.

He closed his hand around the object and nodded.

Tonks nodded back at him without smiling. She was still staring at him when the familiar hook grabbed Harry behind his navel and the world dissolved in a swirl of colours.

* * *

**A/N2: Special thanks to those who helped me with this chapter -- from memory, nuhuh (of course), Yarrgh, Perspicacity and a couple of others. I might not have followed your advice as well as you'd expected, but rest assured I took it in consideration. Thank you again. **


	20. Tonks

**A/N: The link in my profile leads to a detailed summary of past chapters, that should enable you to read the update without re-reading the entire story. **

And here's a summary of the last chapter:

_Harry confronted Lance Colman, who indeed let information slip to Chloe Greengrass, thus to Sao. After a short visit to a still-comatose Ron in St. Mungo's, Harry is attacked by a hired hand working for Narcissa Malfoy. As they fail to defeat one another, though, Harry and the mercenary strike a deal - she takes him, unharmed, to an unsuspecting Narcissa, in exchange for payment. There, Harry discovers Mrs Malfoy wants to exert revenge on him for killing Draco Malfoy; however, before he achieves anything, a sudden explosion destroys Malfoy manor, killing Narcissa Malfoy, the mercenary, and every inhabitant. Harry miraculously survives and is found by Tonks, sent with a company of Aurors to investigate the explosion. Tonks looks wary, as Harry has just been recognised as Hermione's aggressor - but he persuades her to listen to him before she takes any action against him._

_Tonks sends Harry to wait for her in her home. _

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen - Tonks**

Harry's feet hit the ground and he instinctively let go of Tonks's Portkey, which fell with a loud ringing of metal. The whirlwind of colours stabilised, for a second, into a room with greyish walls and a dark floor. Harry could not register the details of the furniture; his attention was drawn by something dark and very large that moved into his peripheral vision, and by the time he swung on his heel to face it, a spell was already rocketing towards his face.

Harry ducked. The jet of light hissed over his head and hit something behind him that rang like a gong. Before he had the time to think, before he even straightened up, his wand described a circle and a curse flew at the man facing him — a dark-robed, red-faced, bulky figure barricaded behind a sturdy oak table.

The man's eyes met his own and widened. Harry's wand froze halfway through a second spell.

A high-pitched wail pierced Harry's eardrums when his spell was deflected upwards. The entire room shook at the impact, and from the ceiling dropped bits of white plaster that shattered in powder on the tiled floor.

"Evening, Chief," Harry said through the dust rain.

His greeting came out a little more curtly than what he had intended. Getting constantly cursed from behind was starting to make him edgy.

Apparently, Robards was thinking along the same lines.

"What the _devil_ was that, Potter?" he growled.

"You cursed me first," said Harry. He tried to brush the white dust off his robes, but they were still damp from his last stay in the Malfoys' tower and the plaster was turning to a white, liquid mud that stuck to the material. He stopped and tiredly looked at his stained hand. All of sudden, he was yearning for a shower and a bed.

_Shower and bed. _A pair of grey-green eyes came swimming to the surface of his mind. Tangled dark-blond hair spilt on the sheets, one pale, slender arm thrown across his waist. Harry's stomach twisted with longing. He found it hard to push the image away and concentrate again on the much less pleasant sight of a dust-covered Robards.

"'You cursed me first'," the Head Auror was saying, mimicking him. "Where the bloody hell are you coming from? And how did you get here?"

"Tonks gave me her Portkey home."

Harry looked round until he found the large, wrought-iron key that had brought him along. It had been thrown across the room by the blast of their fight and lay in a corner, next to a rusty oven.

"_Accio Portkey." _The key flew into Harry's hand, and he held it out towards the oak table Robards had been using as a shield.

"Wouldn't touch that if I were you," Robards said when Harry's fingers nearly came in contact with the table. "Might not be able to take your hand back."

Harry froze. "It's cursed?"

"No." Robards pulled a face. "It's disgustingly sticky. I think Tonks is cleaning it with honey or something. Probably just before she rubs the floor with jam and oil."

Puzzled, Harry took a closer look at the table. The powdered plaster that covered it was outlining fingerprints and large rings of liquids spilt there and never wiped off. He grimaced and pocketed the key, shooting a questioning look to Robards, who, in answer, made a broad gesture including the whole room.

Harry turned to study what apparently was Tonks's kitchen. The floor was made of tiles, which might have been earthenware many, many years ago — the stains and dust accumulated had turned their original colour into a greyish brown. Crumbs piled up in the narrow spaces between the tiles. The walls themselves bore multiple spots and finger marks, and over the old oven, they were black with soot. Brownish stains around the hotplates testified that food had been cooked, spilt and burnt there on a daily basis for years. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink.

"Edifying, huh?" Robards commented.

"Bloody hell," Harry murmured. Behind him, the fridge disappeared under dozens of papers held in place by a set of bright-coloured magnets. What little he could still see of it, however, was also grey with filth. There were bread crumbs on top of it.

"And you haven't seen the worst," Robards said. "I've been cleaning up this cesspit ever since I got here."

"You've been—"

"You should've seen the worktops. And the _ceiling_." He raised his head to consider the crackled ceiling and the apparent beams where Harry's spell had disintegrated the plaster. "Well, not that you can see much of it now, anyway," he said dismissively. "Thank you, by the way. I really needed some white dust on top of everything else."

"Sorry."

"I bloody well hope so."

Robards Summoned two wooden stools from a corner of Tonks's kitchen. They looked relatively clean, but the Head Auror still ran them through several cleaning and — from what Harry could catch — disinfecting charms before he finally declared himself satisfied. They sat, facing each other.

"I take it that you're not going to arrest me," Harry started.

Robards grunted. "No. And I'm probably the only Ministry official in that situation, as a matter of fact. You were officially identified as Granger's aggressor right after our meeting at Hogsmeade, this morning."

Harry nodded slowly; he remembered all too well the expression on Tonks's face when she had seen him.

"Inconvenient, but we were expecting it," Robards went on. "Unfortunately that's not all. Following your report, I appointed two Aurors for Chloe Greengrass's surveillance, under a false pretext. They were found poisoned less than an hour ago. The girl vanished."

Harry was speechless for several seconds.

"Hell," he breathed.

Robards bent down, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. There was a strain to his features that Harry had never seen before. With a twinge of uneasiness, he remembered what he'd once heard about Gawain Robards: that he hated above everything else losing some of his people. Rumours said that he had flirted with illegality on more than one occasion to avenge his Aurors.

As far as Harry knew, those were the first deaths in the Aurors' ranks since the end of Voldemort's reign. And he was the reason they had happened.

Harry suddenly wondered what his relations with Robards would be once it was all over.

Robards spoke to his joined hands. "There was another disappearance, as well. Although I'm not sure it's significant. Lancelot Colman."

"_What?_"

"When Brown and Ryan turned up dead, I had all my Aurors check in. Colman didn't reply. He's nowhere to be found."

Harry shook his head. "Wait, Chief, that's not possible. I talked to Colman a couple of hours ago. He's in my apartment."

"Was," corrected Robards. "It's one of the first places I checked. Your apartment was wrecked and Colman wasn't in it." The Head Auror frowned. "You'd talked to him about your mission?"

"No… Not really."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to sort his ideas. A new feeling of dread was creeping up the back of his mind and infected his thoughts, making his plans petty, insignificant before the Aurors' deaths. More victims. He hadn't been prepared to that. He'd hoped, somehow, that the secrecy surrounding his mission and his newfound control over the Isiames would keep it from happening.

As for Lance…

"Well, he didn't suspect anything about the mission, at least," Harry said with difficulty. "I found out he had leaked information — involuntarily — to Chloe Greengrass. I lost my temper."

"Now that was a dumb thing to do," snapped Robards. "You entered your own apartment, wrecked it, and possibly wounded Colman in the process. You're really making it easy for the ninth-floor, aren't you?"

"It's not that simp — wait, easy for them to do what?"

Robards's face twisted into the same expression he had worn when considering Tonks's kitchen table. "I was told that the Department of Aurors wasn't qualified to lead an investigation about one of their own; in this case, you," he said. "But the Department of Mysteries apparently is. They're investigating your case, Potter. And who do you think they blamed for Greengrass's and Colman's disappearances? Or for the two Aurors' murder?"

Harry stared silently at his Head of Department. The room seemed to have shrunk over his head.

"Things are getting really ugly… Scrimgeour gave specific orders to arrest you on sight, which means he's officially stopped supporting you. He might still like you better than the Unspeakables, on a personal level, but he can't protect you anymore. I don't doubt he was pressured into ditching us."

"Us?"

Harry's hand tightened over his wand. Robards wasn't quite meeting his eyes; he was busy rummaging in his pockets, grumbling indistinctly as he did.

"Why 'us'? What's your position, sir?" Harry asked. His voice came out low and raucous.

Robards snorted. "It won't be the first time I don't follow Rufus's orders. In fact he was probably hoping I wouldn't." He finally extracted a rumpled cigar from an inside pocket and pointed it threateningly at Harry. "The ninth-floor is behind that. They're the reason two of my Aurors are dead, Potter. This only proves how close we got. I'm not going to drop the mission. And you aren't, either."

Harry shook his head slowly. "Even if you drop it, I won't," he muttered.

Robards grunted indistinctly, then used his wand to light his cigar.

"I decided to have Tonks join us," he said, through a cloud of exhaled smoke. "Not the best Auror we got, but I trust her and she likes you. She's not particularly impressed by Rufus, either, which speaks in her favour. We need to be more in this. Just the two of us against the Unspeakables isn't going to be enough."

"Is that why you're here, sir? To recruit Tonks?"

"Indeed. In fact, she had just invited me in when she had to leave and take care of an explosion in Suffolk. I would've been glad to never set foot in this… dustbin, but meeting her in the Ministry would have been too dangerous — the Unspeakables have spies all over the place. But I gather you've beaten me to the punch… Not a bad initiative, but I hope you haven't taken any risk. Enough deaths already."

Robards looked at him with raised eyebrows. Harry stared blankly back.

"You talked to Tonks," Robards elaborated. "Since you're here. Didn't you?"

"Actually, I just told her enough to convince her not to arrest me," said Harry. "I said I needed to see you, and she sent me right here. She was supposed to come right back from Malfoy Manor, but—"

"Malfoy Manor?" Robards sharply interrupted him. "In Suffolk? Malfoy Manor is where the explosion took place?"

"Yes—"

"What were _you_ doing there, Potter?"

"I hadn't planned to go there," said Harry. "After my visit to St. Mungo's, I was attacked by a hired wand who was working for Narcissa Malfoy…"

Harry trailed off as Robards' rough, seamed features seemed to dissolve into a dismayed expression.

"The _Malfoys_ are involved?" he asked in a thin voice.

Harry shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Mrs Malfoy had nothing to do with the ninth-floor or their subject of investigation; she just hated me and wanted me dead."

"Sometimes I understand how that feels," Robards dryly said. "How did it end? Wait, she _had_ nothing to do? Past tense?"

"Yes, sir. She's dead. Half the Manor got blown off and the rest was on fire; according to Tonks, a Sticky-Fire bomb was used."

"Merlin and Morgana. What a mess." Robards rose, agitated, and started to pace in Tonks's kitchen. "Who set the bomb?"

Harry gave a dismissal shrug. That point puzzled him as well. It could be that Narcissa Malfoy had had an enemy who had nothing to do with Harry at all. Or someone could have, somehow, heard of the deal she'd sealed with the mercenary, and hoped to kill Harry and her both… Except it would have been much easier and quieter to let Narcissa kill him then dispose of her, by poisoning her dinner or cursing her in the back in a dark alley…

Pacing back and forth behind his abandoned stool, Gawain Robards was puffing out smoke rings with a thoughtful expression on his face. The rings grew larger and larger as they neared Tonks's ruined ceiling, the smoke twisting so harmoniously that Harry suspected the cigars to be charmed, in some way. Somewhere in the background, a clock was ticking seconds off. The beat was irregular. Harry found he wasn't surprised; Tonks's house felt like a place with no room for order or tidiness.

A figure with a blue paint mark on one cheek, jam on her fingers and her hair covered with an old scarf stood quietly in the back of Harry's mind.

"When in doubt, blame the ninth-floor," Robards suddenly said; Harry's head jerked up as his train of thought was brutally pulled from a dangerous road. "Wouldn't surprise me if they had heard of Mrs Malfoy's intentions and wanted to get rid of her before she managed to get you killed. They seem pretty intent on getting you alive."

"… You think?" Harry showed him his forearm, where the burn marks were still visible despite Tonks's orange ointment. "I nearly got torn to bits and burnt alive in that explosion."

Robards snorted. "Even I wouldn't blame the ninth-floor for your talent at getting yourself into life-threatening situations, Potter."

"That's not what I meant," Harry said impatiently. "You're saying they knew that Mrs Malfoy wanted my head, and instead of waiting until they've learnt more or disposing of her quietly, they just blew her up?"

"Unexplained explosions happen all the time. Experimental potions and spells go wrong, people die; the Malfoys are known for playing around with legality, as well. It's not a bad plan, on the contrary."

Harry stubbornly shook his head. "No. You say they want me alive, yet they took the risk of wiping me off along with Malfoy. That doesn't sound like the ninth-floor; too sloppy. These people don't take risks."

Robards inhaled deeply, his brow furrowed, the tip of his cigar glowed red—then, to Harry's mild surprise, green.

"Good point," he muttered through a fresh torrent of smoke. "Two solutions: either they're a lot weaker than you suspect them to be, or they're getting desperate enough to make mistakes. Which amounts to the same, really. And think about it." Robards planted himself in front of Harry, his fists on his hips. "They allowed a village to be raided by werewolves, at the risk of sending McGonagall into a crusade. They appointed a good friend of yours to the case, at the risk of her betraying them or you finding her out. And now they're publicly involving themselves. They've been acting out of character for a long time in this business, don't you think?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer. A slight _pop_ sounded just behind Robards.

It was immediately echoed by Harry's stool clattering against the floor as the two Aurors sprang to their feet and pointed their wands at a startled, newly-Apparated Tonks.

"Woah!" she said slowly, raising her empty hands in a surrendering gesture. "It's just me—"

"Oh, then, fine!" thundered Robards, so loudly that both Harry and Tonks recoiled a little. "If it's _just you_, I'm very likely not to blast your freaking head off right here and now! _Identify yourself properly, Auror!_"

Tonks gulped audibly. Her hair, Harry noticed, was now short, black, and stuck up at odd angles — a bit like his own; it contrasted rather brutally with her pale skin and tended to enhance the sharpness of her pointy chin. Her scarlet uniform was entirely blackened on one side, and she let off a strong stench of burning plastic. Her wand was tucked in her belt.

"Good," Robards growled after Tonks identified herself in a voice that was, in Harry's opinion, remarkably steady. He lowered his wand and Conjured a third stool from thin air. "Now sit down. There are a few things I need to explain to you and it's going to take a while."

"Uh. Sure, Chief." Tonks sat, casting a quick look around at her destroyed ceiling and at the white dust covering half of her floor and furniture. Her eyes went a little wide and her mouth fell open.

"If you're wondering what's happened to your kitchen, it's the result of my being fed up with Aurors suddenly appearing in my back," said Robards. "Although, if you ask me, it looks much better like that."

"Uh, yeah, it's not bad," Tonks distractedly approved.

Robards emitted a sound of sincere disgust. Harry snorted quietly, momentarily distracted from increasingly ominous thoughts. Tonks caught his eye for the first time; an uncomfortable expression went over her features and she looked away, turning to Robards instead. Harry's amusement evaporated.

"Chief?" said Tonks. "I got specific orders from Mr Scrimgeour—"

"You want to arrest Potter, Tonks? Is that it?" Robards brutally interrupted.

"I was ordered—"

Robards's cool glare froze the words in her mouth.

"You were told he was dangerous," he said, hammering the words through teeth that were still clenched around his cigar, "and yet, you sent him to your kitchen… Just because he told you 'I didn't do it'?"

"I, uh, assume I was right," said Tonks with a hint of a grin. "Since you're talking to him…"

The rest of her sentence was drowned in Robards's inarticulate below. Harry tactfully looked away as Tonks shrank on the spot, bravely squaring her shoulders against the formidable torrent of noise; he knew, from experience, that no one liked to be stared at when they were being verbally decapitated by Gawain Robards.

Inwardly wincing at the sheer volume of sound, he let his eyes wander around the room and thought about the perspective of having Tonks at his side. It was dangerous enough to hide his double game from Robards, who had no idea how close to the Isiames he actually was; was it reasonable to bring Tonks in the matter? Would he be able to fool her as well? Or would he have to come clean about the whole thing?

Truth be told, Robards seemed to have taken his decision; so there was little point wondering about whether or not it was _reasonable_. Besides, he had to be honest with himself: if she could trust him again, it would be a relief from what he'd experienced so far — being completely on his own.

The three of them, fighting a war against the Unspeakables, their impossibly far-reaching arms, and their full power unleashed to get to Harry…

Two Aurors killed, Chloe and Lance abducted — and if Robards's assumption was correct, Malfoy Manor dynamited; and the more Harry thought about it, the more Robards's reasoning made sense. It fit in the jigsaw. They weren't being subtle. They wanted to scare him, badly.

Hermione had warned him, he suddenly thought. She had been in charge with his case, she had spied on him, studied him like a strange specimen, betrayed his friendship in the most brutal way — and thus, she had given herself the means to control every action that the ninth-floor undertook. He had never denied that she had had good intentions, however twisted her decisions were; but it had never struck him that she had also been frightfully realistic.

Beating her had been like kicking a hornet nest. Hermione gone, the Department of Mysteries was no longer content with spying on him or studying him from afar: they tried to corner him, prevent him from acting, even if it meant having him thrown in Azkaban.

Harry blinked. Behind the window he had been absentmindedly staring at, two round amber eyes blinked back.

"Tonks?" he asked.

It took him a moment to realise Robards had stopped yelling and was now speaking normally. At his interruption, the Head Auror turned a weary face to him.

"Go ahead, Potter. It's not a complicated story to explain at all. You may interrupt me any time you wish."

"Sorry," Harry mechanically said. "Tonks, are you expecting mail?"

Tonks followed his gaze to the window where the owl was waiting, its feathers ruffled against the cold, a letter clamped in its beak.

"Not particularly," she said. "But let me get that, it might be Remus."

Harry and Robards watched her as she crossed the kitchen to the window, picked a greyish cloth that lay crumpled on the windowsill, and used it to open the window without touching the catch.

"Let me guess," said Robards in an almost sweet voice. "The window catch is sticky too?"

"Uh, yeah." Tonks opened the window wide for the owl, but it just gave a disgusted hoot, dropped the letter on her feet and flew off.

Instead of bending to retrieve the letter, Tonks kicked up with one foot, sending the small square of parchment flying three feet away. Robards shut his eyes so he wouldn't have to see more. Tonks reached for her wand, but Harry, foreseeing another catastrophe, raised his and Summoned the letter before she could utter a word.

"That's just as well," Tonks said with a shrug as he caught the parchment. "It's for you anyway."

"For you?" Robards repeated, suddenly alert. "Someone knows you're here, Potter?"

"I doubt it, sir," said Tonks. "There's no address, just his name on it."

Harry took one wary glance at his name, sprawled across the parchment in a left-handed writing, then turned the envelope over. There was no expeditor; the seal was blank and unremarkable.

Robards ripped the letter from his hand. "I'll get that for you, if you don't mind, Potter," he grumbled, taking out his wand and pointing it at the square of parchment.

Harry and Tonks watched, holding their breaths. But nothing happened when Robards broke the seal and extracted a single sheet of parchment from the envelope. The Head Auror looked at the letter. Then he shoved it back, without warning, in Harry's hand.

The parchment was blank when Harry looked at it. Then, under his very eyes, words appeared and started running from one side of the parchment to the other.

_Harry—_

_I couldn't go to Hogwarts until Rosmerta let me have a break, I hope this doesn't reach you too late. I followed your instructions to the letter and here's what I learnt:_

_Headmaster Pallas's sword was in fact his father's, who participated to the Great Battle of Hogwarts (whatever that is). Pallas said it was a sword crafted for defensive purposes, meant to be wielded by a guardian and not a conqueror. It apparently was the reason why he was chosen to become Headmaster after the last Founder died, because the sword gave him the ability to defend the school against hostile forces. Then he became rather confused… He said he couldn't guard the school against something he didn't know, so he decided to make acquaintance with his foes and prepared what he called his 'fateful expedition.' He took the sword with him. Apparently that's when he died and the sword was never found again. _

_I was unable to learn more because when I asked who those foes were, he started screaming about a third kind that would destroy everything if we let them, and every other portrait went insane and started screaming as well. Dumbledore told me to go._

_That's it. I hope you can make some sense out of it, and eventually tell me what's going on—it sounds like something I'd like to hear._

_See you soon, I hope,_

_Romilda Vane._

"Interesting."

Harry lifted his eyes back to Robards. "What's interesting?"

"The letter may only be read by you. That means you gave a reference number to whoever wrote it," Robards replied conversationally. "I find it interesting you should recruit an informant without consulting me first."

"With all due respect," said Harry, folding the letter and sliding it in a back pocket, "if I had to consult you every time I took a decision…"

"Maybe you wouldn't have sent Granger to the hospital," Robards finished.

Harry threw at him an incredulous look — was it just an impression, or had Robards decided to remind him of everything that had gone wrong since the beginning of his mission? The Head Auror looked coolly back, seemingly forgetting he himself had shown satisfaction at Hermione's defeat.

However, Harry's annoyance dissolved as he felt Tonks's gaze pressing against the side of his face. Hermione was the reason why she couldn't trust him. And Robards had to know that.

"Maybe not," he conceded. "Maybe she'd still be behind her desk, spying on me and slowing us down." _And letting werewolves into Hogsmeade,_ he mentally added; that last argument would probably cause Tonks to rally his side in the blink of an eye. But something — an odd sense of loyalty — prevented him from wording it. "More likely, I'd be down in a ninth-floor cell," he went on. "As their next project, between the Archway Room and the Gearwheel Well."

"Gearwheel Well?"

Harry turned to Tonks. "A room full of gearwheels in the Department of Mysteries. Hermione was studying some forces trapped there, partly mastered by huge brass wheels. Rumour says Alphonse Martin, the Head Unspeakable, brought them from France."

"What's the connection with you… or Hermione?" asked Tonks, frowning.

"Well," said Harry, hooking his foot around the leg of his stool and dragging it back to him, "that's where it gets a little complicated."

* * *

"A little complicated. Hah."

"Cheer up, it's not as bad as it sounds," Harry said, distractedly seizing Tonks's elbow as she stumbled over a rock dissimulated under a thick layer of snow. "And you get to go back to Hogwarts, don't you?"

He glanced at the faraway castle, sitting atop a hill dominating the frozen lake, silhouetted in black against the blinding white of the sky and snow-covered landscape; it was a Friday, and the school would be buzzing with activity — and with the promises of a Hogsmeade weekend. Chances were they would see none of it, though, as McGonagall had offered them rooms in the guest aisle. Neither Harry nor Tonks had ever set foot there as students.

"Small consolation," Tonks sighed. "And knowing you, I bet it's even _worse_ than it sounds. Why didn't you talk to Robards about the letter you got?"

"We talked about it while you were busy getting your things in order. It's a lead I found yesterday… A magical sword is — I think — linked to the Third Kind, the creatures Robards was telling you about. It went missing some twenty-five years ago, and I'm trying to track it down. We follow the sword lead, Robards keeps up the watch on the Unspeakables. McGonagall's office will be our HQ, and that's where we'll all meet up."

"A sword."

"Yes."

"How… medieval."

Harry snorted. "Wanna hear more medieval? It's a hunch I got from a millennium-old Hogwarts book, a dream, and a portrait."

"I've heard weirder," said Tonks with a nod. "But not often. How did it go missing?"

"Well, that's where I get personally involved. I know my father owned it at one point."

"Yeah?" Tonks threw at him a sharp glance. "Is that why you get all hot and bothered about that sword? Because, based on what you're telling me, it's interesting, sure — but not likely to tell us why these creatures are suddenly sprouting from the ground and messing with us."

"Trouble is, they're not really messing with us. They're messing with me," said Harry dryly. "It's me they're interested in. Robards suspected it after the whole werewolf incident, I confirmed it after I made contact with the Third Kind, and from the way they keep trying to stop me, the ninth-floor knows it too. So anything that is linked both to me and to them is useful in this investigation."

"So the case about weird-creepy-creatures turned into a case about one Harry Potter, Junior Auror. In other words, you got Robards to investigate about _you_." Tonks whistled softly. "Wow."

"Yep." Harry halted as they came to a fork. Behind them was the way they had walked from the Earth Gate into Hogsmeade valley. The road on the left slithered downhill to the Hogwarts gate, and on the right, it led steadily to the first houses of Hogsmeade village.

"An investigation all about me," he sighed. "And just when it becomes about me, more people get killed. Fancy that."

Tongs rubbed her nose vigorously. It had gone upturned, and a little longer, when she lowered her hand. "Well, I have to say," she commented, "Aurors have got killed for stupider causes. At least you've got cool hair."

Harry's surprised laughter rang high in the air, and the mountains let the echo of it bounce off their flanks until it died off, long after the two Aurors had started on the road leading to the Hogwarts castle.

Being back to Hogwarts lifted Harry's spirits, even now, while the horizon was darker than it had ever appeared. Tonks apparently felt the same way; her demeanour radically changed, turning into a bright kind of determination, all traces of suspicion and uncharacteristic seriousness having evaporated. There was something about the castle that made them feel protected against foreign attacks. They no longer looked over their shoulder or jumped at every noise, wand jumping from their belt to their fighting hand. The nausea and fever that had taken hold of Harry since he'd left the Isiame city had, too, receded.

Harry had not felt so perfectly safe in years. He was beyond the Unspeakables' reach, and also — and he was taken aback by the intense relief he felt at that thought — beyond the Isiames'. Here, he was just Harry Potter.

It made it easier to think.

The evening found them having dinner in Professor McGonagall's quarters. The castle was humming with the students' chattering as they filled out of the Great Hall. Small groups of black pointy hats could be seen through the window, dotting the snow-covered courtyard, hurrying back inside the castle at Filch's angry, wheezy-voiced calls.

And Harry waited for the castle to quieten, so he could go looking for a lost sword — in a place where dozens of generations of Hogwarts students had hidden things.

"Harry," said Tonks, a sudden note of eagerness in her voice. "You should see this."

She thrust at him a few parchments coming from a heavy bundle bewitched to look like garish magazines, freshly delivered by Robards' owl. The Head Auror was emptying his home and office of all documents related to their investigation, before he even had to face the Unspeakables' growing suspicions — and possible searches.

The sheets were still coiling at the ends from being tightly scrolled, and some of them were yellowed with age. Harry smoothed them down and squinted his eyes, in an effort to decipher the words scripted in fading ink.

Excitement made his heart pound at once.

"That's Alphonse Martin's medical record," he murmured.

"Yeah." Tonks's eyes glittered. "The Chief has been doing some heavy surveillance work on Martin, lately. Still, I'd like to know how on _earth_ he got his hands on that. Any medical record is heavily protected, but the Head Unspeakable's? I wouldn't be surprised if the stuff was guarded by half a dozen dragons."

"There's not all of it," Harry noted, "and it looks like badly done copies of the original record. In French, too."

"Don't be such a killjoy. I know a little French."

"We don't need just 'a little'. We need someone who's fluent."

Tonks shook her head. "I know an Auror who's fluent, but he's recently sworn to hang your arse to his cubicle door, as his personal hunting trophy."

"No, thanks," Harry delicately said. "Fleur Weasley would be our best bet, but I don't like the idea of involving the Weasleys."

"Especially since Fleur's about to have a second baby—"

"Give me that," snapped Professor McGonagall, snatching the sheets from Harry's hands.

Harry started to protest but the Headmistress held up an imperious hand; the gesture had not lost any of its old authority, despite the fact that she was holding a round-bellied teapot and had almost knocked off Harry's glasses with its nose. He numbly took the teapot from her and watched, bewildered, as she adjusted her own glasses, cleared her throat and unfolded the French medical records in a dry motion of her hand.

"March 30th, 1979," she started, and her voice held that brisk, cutting, you'd-better-take-notes-now-for-I-will-not-repeat-myself tone, so vividly reminding Harry and Tonks of their school days that they both found themselves reaching for parchment and quill.

"Patient admitted at 2 a.m. at the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital, Magical Section, for multi-visceral failure consecutive to severe spell-inflicted injuries.

"Were noted:

"A forced Transfiguration of the right liver into ice, which was reversed after several hours of careful counter-spelling; there are severe lasting effects on liver function. The edge of the ice-liver was sharp enough to slice through the peritoneum and shred several inches of intestine. The subsequent peritonitis was successfully treated.

"Two vertebras Vanished, requiring an emergency operation to stabilise the patient's spine. A loss of superficial and deep sensitivity remains after the operation, affecting the entire body from mid-chest down. Mr Martin regained, however, his motivity and the control of his sphincters.

"Seven fragmented ribs on the right side of the ribcage, a collapsed right lung, and severe burns to the eyes; all of which were fixed with no difficulty."

Tonks let out a slow whistle, and Professor McGonagall stopped reading. Her face had gone a shade paler.

"That's an awesome way to use Transfiguration in duels," Tonks breathed.

The raw admiration in her voice caused Harry to turn to her and blink in surprise. He had never pinned Tonks as an admirer of battle-stories and recollections of ugly, spell-inflected injuries. She reddened slightly under his stare, before squaring her shoulders and scrunching up her face in a look of painful concentration. Her short hair sprouted out of her skull, reaching her shoulders and twisting around as it plaited itself in heavy dreadlocks. Harry had never seen that look on her.

"Well," said Tonks, looking pleased at her new hairdo, "it is. Technically, I mean. Sure, your spell-casting is slower — but it bypasses most common shields, and the counter-spells —"

"It is, indeed, a gruesome and effective way of killing someone," McGonagall said in frosty tones.

Tonks's face flushed a deeper red and she fell silent. The dreadlocks retracted and turned into short reddish ringlets, as though fleeing before the Headmistress's scathing gaze.

"We won't have to look very long for the culprit," Harry pointed out. "Very few people could do that kind of spellwork. Professor Dumbledore, Gawain Robards, you, I suppose —"

"No," McGonagall snapped. "My strengths in Transfiguration do not lie there. If I need to use Transfiguration in a fight, I'll animate statues, change a tree into a charging bull, a river into lava, or just Conjure a rock to throw at your face. Transfiguring and messing with organs, however? It's…"

The Headmistress sighed and looked down at the records.

"Gawain Robards could have done it," she admitted. "He was in my year, and one of the top students in Transfiguration. Besides, he has always had a ghastly taste for anything ugly and chaotic. But that is not his work."

"Yes, he would have told us a long time ago if —"

"No," McGonagall said again, and her voice shook a little. "It's not his work, because I recognise it. Two vertebras vanished and an icy liver — this is too neat, too precise for Gawain. I've seen this kind of injury only once before. This is James Potter's spellwork."

There was a leaden silence. The Headmasters' portraits seemed to be holding their breaths. Harry's heart beat slowly, and it seemed to him that pieces of a jigsaw were falling into place, following that dull, quiet tempo.

"My father was expelled from the Auror training programme with no explanation," he murmured, realisation dawning on him.

Tonks jumped up and rummaged through the scattered parchments, until she picked up another sheet that had come with Robards' owl. "That's the copy of his dismissal notice," she said excitedly. "Apprentice Potter, dismissed for disobeying direct orders. April first, 1979. It fits."

"He beat up Martin —"

"Tried to kill him," McGonagall corrected him through gritted teeth.

"— but I've often heard my mother was involved, somehow," Harry went on, barely noticing the interruption. "That it was in a duel for her honour or something."

"They don't mention it," said Tonks, scanning the dismissal notice. "They don't even say he was involved in a duel. Hey — Professor, there's another piece of the medical record, here… must've slipped when I gave it to Harry…"

McGonagall silently outstretched a hand, palm up, towards Tonks. Both Aurors ensconced themselves in their seats as the Headmistress once more readjusted her glasses, Tonks looking as though she was about to hear a piece from one of her favourite bands, while Harry felt a certain wariness. For better or for worse, the smooth image he had of his father had been severely damaged, and he suspected it would not be improved by further diggings into the past…

McGonagall unnecessarily cleared her throat a couple of times.

"However," she read, "while the wounds carried over by conventional magic were worrying, we were more concerned about several dozens of injuries of unknown nature found all over the patient's skin.

"There were fifty-seven of them, most of them linear, of varying size. The largest was one inch wide and twenty inches long, and it coiled around the wand arm, from wrist to shoulder. Green light filtered through the injured skin, pulsing in time with the patient's heart; it made us assume the wounds were caused by an unknown poison, carried along by the bloodstream. Apart from the green glow, their aspect was that of third-degree burns, and indeed, they kept deepening over the next few days, as third-degree burns sometimes do.

"We tried a broad-spectrum antidote, with no effect on the pulsatile glow or the wounds. Counter-spells made the green light stronger, which seemed to cause the patient considerable pain. In the end, we used an old magic-trapping device to counter the green glow. The device has been in hospital custody for a millennium — although we have no records of it being used for centuries — and, to our knowledge, it is the only one of its kind.

"It was, against all odds, efficient. The light and the pain dimmed and the patient's life was no longer in danger.

"The patient was dismissed on May the third. The device was left in his care, as he could not go two hours without it before the pain got unbearable again.

"A close follow-up was organised with Head Healer Mercier."

Professor McGonagall ruffled through the few remaining sheets. "The rest is just follow-up consultations," she said. "I'll write a translation if you need it. Apparently, the hospital lost track of him five years later."

Harry nodded, and kept silent as Tonks threw herself into a passionate analysis. Guessing at the nature of those green pulsatile wounds wasn't difficult. Martin had had a brush with an Isiame, just before or after he duelled James Potter…

Or maybe, that was how Lily was involved. _The Isiame Knights_ _had the duty and power to protect the Isiame people,_ had said Eunice, back at the Isiame city. Was Lily Potter defending Isiame territory, as she had been cursed to do when she had found Rosalyn's lost sword? And James Potter — the Wizard Knight — had jumped into the battle…

The Wizard Knight.

It was the first time he thought of his father in those terms, in symmetry to his mother's condition; but he had the intuition he was right. By picking up Pallas's old sword — _a sword crafted for defensive purposes, meant to be wielded by a guardian and not a conqueror — _he had, too, picked up the task to defend wizards against Isiames.

The Wizard and the Isiame Knights, fighting the same enemy on the same night. The night after which neither of their swords was ever to be found. The enemy who was, now, back on the Isiames' track — and on Harry's.

Through the empty castle, shrouded with the silent stillness peculiar to winter nights, Harry and Tonks walked without speaking. Soon they reached, on the seventh floor, a portion of unremarkable corridor where an old tapestry of dancing trolls hung, facing a length of bare wall.

"You think it's in the Room of Requirement?" whispered Tonks, holding her wand aloft.

"I can't think of a better place to hide something in Hogwarts," Harry replied in the same prudently hushed tones — they had been heard by Peeves ten minutes before and had owed their salvation to a hidden staircase. The detour had slowed them down. "The sword vanished, and with it, a sword belonging to the other team — the Third Kind. So, either they've been taken by a third party, or their owners hid them away… and Hogwarts seems like the perfect place for that. It's where the swords have been found, and it's a kind of neutral place."

"But why hide them?"

Harry stared at the trolls in tutus that stood on tiptoes, faded and sour-faced, on the threadbare tapestry. He felt increasingly certain that Lily and James's swords had found a shelter in the cathedral-like room, among towers of dust and archways of cobwebs, with hundreds of dangerous or illegal treasures. And with that certainty came, once more, the sentiment that those swords were a key…

"That's why I'm trying to find out," he breathed.

Tonks, a frown on her face, directed her wand at both ends of the corridor and at the ceiling. "There's no one here apart from us," she said. "And I still think we don't need to be two for the search."

"Tonks, you haven't seen the size of that room."

"I will soon, if you tell me how to open it. I can search that room, Harry. _You_ need to go back to the Third Kind's place — that's what the Chief wants, remember? One at the HQ, one on the Unspeakables' tail, and one on the Third Kind's? S'not like we have much time to spare, is it?"

Harry grimaced. There were now three of them facing the world — facing wizards led by the Unspeakables, and Isiames led by Sao the poisoner.

"Yes," Harry admitted. "Those were his orders. You keep the place and handle the communications, I go back undercover. I even have a grass to pin on Daphne Greengrass's clothes."

_And I need to make sure Ron, Luna and Parletoo are being treated, as they promised, _he thought, in addendum.

"Okay, then that's settled," Tonks said briskly. "Just tell me the phrase to get in, and I'll find your… sword." She grinned.

"Swords," Harry corrected her. "There are two of them. Both are wide-bladed, one is carved with pentagons and the other has a golden hilt with a big emerald set in it. The place you need the Room to become is a 'place to hide something'. If you need help looking through it, get Romilda Vane, from the Three Broomsticks. She's involved already. McGonagall and the Headmasters' portraits might think of other places to look."

"Wide blades, pentagons, emerald," Tonks recited. "And Romilda Vane. Got it. Now go back undercover, Auror."

"Yes Ma'am!" He ducked as she threw at him some purple sparks, although she missed him by several feet. "By the way," he suddenly called at Tonks, who had started pacing before the tapestry, "I never knew you liked messing with your opponents' organs!"

She turned to him, and the dark dreadlocks joyously sprang before her face again as she flashed him a smile.

"What did you think I had in common with Remus, Harry?" Her smile widened. "I _like_ blood."

Harry snorted and turned on his heel.

Five corridors, three staircases, two passageways hiding behind tapestries and portraits — and he found himself outside, through the side door of the North Tower. There was no wind when he closed the castle door behind him. The night was clear, and the thick carpet of snow reflected a faint blue luminescence under the crescent moon. The Forbidden Forest extended pale, skeletal limbs bristling with bare twigs. A wolf howled. Hagrid's house sat, dark and squat, in the middle of its tiny garden. The lights were out. No one would see him.

Maybe the wolf's cry had influenced him. Maybe it was the quiet, or the moon. Maybe it was the way a breeze suddenly caught in his winter cloak, played with the hem, and zigzagged towards the Forbidden Forest in a playful invitation.

Harry shuddered, and Transformed.

* * *

**A/N: How long has it been - three years, give or take a few weeks? **

**I have a bunch of very good and very boring excuses for that elephantine gap between my last update and this one. Let's just say I had to set aside writing, reading, Internet-browsing, personal life, sport, friends, and most family gatherings, due to university being invasive for the past two years and a half. So you see, it's not just you.**

**I couldn't practice my English for all that time, and it may have suffered from this long diet. I can't really tell. I lost my usual beta, so I can only hope my writing didn't turn to stale soup towards the end of the chapter (the beginning was written three years ago). Also, you can't go for years without thinking about your own story, without continuously reading it, editing it, improving it, and then hope you'll be able to pick it back up right away. **

**Ah well. I've done my best.**

**The next chapter is nearly done, and should be posted quickly enough. **


	21. The Child

**Necessary A/N: the story was planned and started before DH was published, and disregards the revelations in the latest book.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty – The Child**

The big white wolf slipped into the Forest, found under the snow the slithering path that led up to its core. The earth appeared here and there, at the foot of the trees, in dark patches that grew larger as he went deeper into the Forest. Soon he was at the row of Sentry Trees. Soon he had crossed over, into the sun-bathed alley of living trees, past the crooked oak tree that had killed Eric de Pallas — past the slender willows that still held in their vise-like roots the cadavers of Death Eaters — past the pale, golden-leaved tree that stood, isolated, where Isiame Rosalyn had been killed by Godric Gryffindor.

A red-haired figure in stripped pyjamas was slumped against the creamy bark of the lone tree.

The wolf stopped dead in his tracks. His route wound away from the clearing, following the river bank to the Elemental Gate, at the mouth of the river. The alleyway that lay before him, at a right angle with the river bed, climbed steadily up to the clearing, up to the tree.

It could be a trap.

His senses weren't to be trusted in the forest of spirit-trees.

He should ignore it, and go on.

Turning away from the path to the Isiame city, Harry trotted up the alleyway, all his senses on the alert. For the first time, the spirit-trees were silent, and there was an expectant quality to their stillness.

He crossed the clearing slowly, crouching in the tall grass, his limbs quivering with suppressed tension. The tree loomed nearer. Ron Weasley's lanky form had been propped against the trunk, arms hanging at his sides and legs sprawled in the grass, two inches of pallid ankle showing where the stripped fabric of the pyjamas ended. His chin rested on his chest.

And he was snoring, loudly.

Harry froze. He could not remember if Ron had been snoring when he had visited him in his ward at St. Mungo's, only twelve hours before. He recalled a comatose man, closer to a wax figure than to a living person. A picture that was at complete odds with the loud breathing, the steady, ample rising of the chest, the coloured cheekbones of the man before him…

"Hello, doggy!"

Harry spun around out of pure instinct, poised for a jump, his teeth bared and a growl rolling in his throat — to find himself nose-to-nose with a child's rosy, gleeful face.

He tried to interrupt his reflexive attack but he had too much momentum; his front paws got tangled in each other and caught in the long grass, his shoulder rammed into the child's chest causing her to fall on her bottom with a surprised 'oof!', and he collapsed forward with an undignified yelp.

The little girl's bubbling laughter rang into his ears as he laboriously stood up, shaking his head and rubbing his dirt-covered muzzle with his front paws. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her get to her feet. She looked six or seven years old, and wore a white summer dress with lace at the sleeves and hem. Her black hair was held back with a white headband and curled around her shoulders. She turned to him a round-cheeked face, in which a wide baby-grin and a pair of emerald, almond-shaped eyes shone. She was missing a couple of teeth.

"Nice doggy!" she squealed. Her eyes glinted with pleasure; she showed no hints of fear at being knocked off her feet by a gigantic snarling wolf. She stepped closer to him and reached out to bury her little hands in his fur.

The fingers had not had time to touch him when Harry gave a start and Transformed back into his human form.

The little girl looked crestfallen. "Where's the doggy?" she asked, wide eyes fixed on Harry's face.

He stared down at her. She looked adorable, a perfect picture of a perfect little girl in a summer dress, in the eternal summer of the spirit-trees. Every time she spoke the trees rustled slightly, as though run through with shivers. He was certain he had never seen her; and yet she looked familiar.

The child's disappointed expression turned to a scowl and she stamped her foot.

"I want the doggy!"

A small grove rustled again, louder than before, and from between the thin trunks emerged Daphne Greengrass — dishevelled, puffy-eyed, and looking thoroughly panic-stricken.

"I just — I didn't — where — Potter!" she stuttered. "Thank Merlin_,_ you're here! Is _she_ all right?"

"I was playing," said the child, pouting. "With a big white dog. It was funny!"

"What's going on?" Harry asked Daphne, as his feeling of unreality increased. "Why's Ron here? Who's the kid? Why are _you_ here?"

Daphne did not seem to hear him; her relief at finding the child safe and sound was painted all over her face. She rushed to her and gripped her hand.

"_Bad_ girl," she scolded. "You were not to go anywhere without me. It's forbidden!"

Harry threw his hands up in exasperation and strode up to the golden tree.

"Ron!" he called loudly. "It's Harry. Wake up." He seized Ron's shoulders and shook him as energetically as he dared. Ron snorted loudly, twitched, but did not open his eyes. There was a soft chinking of metal between the roots of the tree.

Harry looked down. When he had shaken him, Ron's hand had brushed against something that lay in the grass — something pointy, hidden in the tall weeds, its presence betrayed by a dull metallic glint. Harry fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and used it to pick up the thing.

It was the blood-stained iron tip of an arrow.

Harry considered it for a few seconds; the memory of Ron's body, lying face down with a long straight arrow planted into his back, forced itself on his mind — and Sao's voice came with it, Sao's voice, saying, _Someone with power could reverse the curse…_

Putting the point back down, he gripped the collar of Ron's pyjamas and tugged forcefully on it, causing Ron's upper body to topple heavily against his left shoulder. Ron snorted again, then snored peacefully against Harry's back.

Harry stared down. The back of Ron's pyjamas had been ripped open, and there was blood crusting on the torn edges. A long wound ran along the spine, between the naked shoulder blades — a wound that looked as though it had just started to heal, marring the skin with an angry red line, dirty with dried-up blood.

"I took the thing out of his back," said a childish voice behind Harry.

He set Ron delicately back against the tree and turned around. The little girl, whose hand was firmly held by Daphne, stood right behind him. At second glance, the slender little fingers were not covered in dirt — as he had first assumed — but with dry blood. He felt a shiver run down his own spine.

"Daphne," he asked in a hoarse whisper, "what the hell is going on?"

But Daphne merely gave a vague shrug, clearly not listening to him; her eyes were glued to the little girl's head as though dreading she would vanish suddenly. The child looked aggravated that Harry would choose to speak to Daphne rather than talk to her.

"My name is Clio," she said, pouting her lips. "And Daphne did nothing. I did everything! I found all three arrows!"

Out of desperation, Harry turned to her. "Three?" he repeated blankly.

She nodded vigorously, a pleased smile showing her milk teeth, her rosy cheeks creasing with dimples. "The one in the man with orange hair," she said, counting off the blood-stained fingers of her free hand. "The one in the blonde girl, and the one in the old man."

"The blonde — Luna? Luna Lovegood? And Professor Parletoo, the Head Healer?" Harry looked round. "Where are they?"

"The girl is behind the tree. And the old man is over there." She pointed at the other side of the clearing, where an indistinct figure lay on the ground, half-hidden by the tall grass. "But they're all sleeping. I was singing and they all fell asleep."

"It's very good," interjected Daphne. "Now, it's time to go home."

"I want the doggy," Clio said stubbornly.

Daphne's voice turned cajoling. "There are plenty of doggies at home. You will see them if we go back before they all go to bed."

"I want the white doggy!" Clio whined, stamping her feet again.

"Harry will call him up at home!" said Daphne, shooting Harry a quick look. "But only if we go back before bedtime!"

"Daphne," Harry started, but she interrupted him with a furious gesture of her hand, mouthing 'Not now' and waggling her eyebrows in a way that had probably reduced dozens of magical children into terrified silence.

It took several minutes of coaxing and scolding before Clio accepted to start the journey back to the Elemental Gate. She trotted up behind Daphne, dragging her feet across apparent roots and at times trying, without success, to pry her fingers from the young Isiame's hand. Harry lingered in the clearing behind them, refusing to abandon Ron and Luna. However, seconds after Daphne and Clio had vanished behind a curtain of young trees, from all around the clearing came six men and women Harry remembered seeing in the Isiame city.

"Hey, Harry," said quickly Brandon, the middle-aged man who had helped him and Daphne furnish their home.

"Hey," replied Harry. "What's happening to—"

"Lady Eunice wouldn't have them in the city, so they got patched up here. We're taking them back to St. Mungo's," Brandon said. He lowered himself next to Ron, and gestured at another Isiame to come and help him.

"How did you get them here in the first place?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"Magic," said a sarcastic voice from behind him.

He turned around. Lurking in the patchy shadows of the trees stood four more Isiames. They wore green, and supported quivers on their backs; Harry recognised with a flash of surprised anger the green fletching of the arrows that had been aimed at Ron, Luna and Parletoo, over a year before.

"The Eldest are creating a spell," explained one of the four archers, "that makes wizards forget about your friends' ward. They will remember it when we've put them back in their beds."

"They should wake up in a few hours," said Brandon, bent double under Ron's weight, as he passed by them. He addressed Harry a comforting smile. "They'll be all right."

"The wizards won't notice anything," said the first archer. "The wind will take us to their hospital, and they won't see a thing. Hah! We could throw a party in the middle of their _school,_ and they'd still look in the air and pretend we don't exist."

"C'mon, Wilcox," the woman next to him murmured. "Let's go."

Harry debated whether to follow them or not; he wanted to make sure his friends would be all right. While there were good people among the Isiames, there were a few, too, who didn't dislike the idea of tormenting as many wizards as they could. If something was to happen to them — well, something _worse_ than what had already happened to them…

The idea had barely entered his mind when he realised he could _not_ go. His own Isiame powers still escaped his control, and tended to manifest only when he was in mortal peril or in a surge of panic. And even with the protection of trained Isiames, going to St. Mungo's would put him too close to the Unspeakables to his liking. Martin was a dangerous opponent for wizards and Isiames alike.

So Harry let them go, a tightening feeling inside his chest.

When he caught up with Daphne and little Clio, a storm was howling over the snow-covered mountains. Dawn was still hours away. The cold made him shiver and he contemplated turning back into a wolf; at least, the animal had thick fur…

_I want the doggy!_ screamed a childish voice in his head. He shivered again, although it had little to do with the cold this time; turning the collar of his winter cloak against the wind, he hurried behind Daphne.

She had wrapped up the child in her cloak and carried her in her arms. Clio looked fast asleep. Daphne trudged on as far away from the precipice as she could, her shoulders hunched against the storm. Their path, thankfully, had been lit up: little balls of glass hung in mid-air, each of them shielding small dancing flames of the white fire that Isiames used to light up their houses. The spheres oscillated a little in the screaming wind.

"Need help?" Harry called over the deafening storm.

Daphne whipped her head around to look at him and nodded, a relieved expression stealing over her features. Harry secured the child in his arms and strode towards the city, while Daphne preceded him.

She led him into Eunice's gigantic house. The main hall offered to the visitors' sights its unsettling pattern of dancing lights, provided by large fires burning in chimneys that had been set in the walls at irregular intervals. A multitude of pillars of carved stone, scattered randomly over the immense hall, broke the light and reshaped it in ominous, ethereal shapes.

Twelve old men and women sat amongst the pillars, their hands linked. Harry saw Eunice among them; Sao faced her directly. Their heads were bowed, their grey hair falling into curtains on either side of their faces, and a low humming came from them — as though they were all muttering different incantations that mingled into a single chant.

Harry was unable to tell how long it lasted, how long he and Daphne stood there transfixed, prisoners of the chant like flies in a cobweb. At last, Eunice lifted her head and broke the chant.

Somewhere in the distance — or maybe it was in Harry's mind — there was the sound a faint, muffled detonation.

The other Isiames all stopped chanting; releasing the hands they were holding, they broke the circle, grabbed the staves that lay on the floor and wearily got to their feet in a great rustling of cloaks and robes. Ten of them filed out of the house without sparing as much as a glance to Harry and Daphne.

Finally, Eunice and Sao were the last ones left.

"Sao, you should get some rest," Eunice said. Her voice, too, betrayed a great lassitude.

"Are you sure you do not need my help, my lady?" murmured Sao.

She appeared, as always, bent under the weight of years; but Harry thought he saw her steal a hungry glance at the bundle in his arms. He shifted involuntarily, and felt Eunice's gaze on him.

"I am quite sure," she said, stony-faced. "This spell was longer and harder than anything either of us has done in a long time, and you need to continue the young ones' training tomorrow. Leave."

Sao did not protest any further. Harry heard her shuffling her feet as she left, as though she was keen to linger. His arms instinctively closed a little tighter around the child.

"Mr Potter," Eunice said softly. "Give the princess back to Daphne. She's in her charge."

Daphne turned a little pink. "He was only helping," she muttered. "On the road."

"The princess?" Harry asked, as he transferred the sleeping child into Daphne's waiting arms.

Eunice slowly nodded. "Surely you will have noticed that she, too, has the Royal Family's features? This child will be, when she grows up, the Queen of Isiames. Only she has the power to assume such a difficult charge. Only she, consequently, had the power to heal your friends. Which was done today, as I had promised."

"This kid will become…"

"I know what you're thinking," said Eunice, her tone gentle. "How could we lay such a burden on such a young child? In fact, she does not know what role she will be called to play when she becomes an adult. I thought it was better if she grew up as any child would — and so, I raised her as my own. I control her powers, which are so great that, should they be left unchecked, they could get people hurt." The old woman smiled. "She is an orphan raised by her old aunt, until she is ready to face the task that shall be hers."

Harry said nothing. He was too much reminded of his own childhood among the Dursleys. Those were some of Dumbledore's reasons — that he should grow up, as an orphan raised by his aunt, away from his fame… Until he was ready to face it.

They were now following Daphne, who carried the child across the hall towards the staircase, crooning and singing softly to her the whole time.

"And today?" Harry asked Eunice in a whisper. "She ripped arrowheads from people's backs with her hands. Is that your idea of a normal childhood?"

Eunice's face closed up. "She was the only one who could heal your friends," she said. "I told her she needed to help these three people. I have been trying to teach her how to use her powers well, by showing her how to care for birds. She has set broken wings and pulled splinters out of them, under my supervision. She is a born healer. She knows exactly what is wrong with animals, and how to cure them. I hoped… that it would make no difference to her…"

They had reached the top of the main staircase. There, to Harry's surprise, they turned right, brushed aside a thick tapestry, and went down another staircase — narrower than the first and winding deep inside the mountain. Balls of glass hovered in the air, containing fires of varying colours, blue, pink, green and golden, and lit up the staircase with cheery glows.

At the bottom of the stairs the corridor expanded into a tall vault; there, the walls and arching ceiling were covered in leaves and budding flowers. Harry watched, his mouth slightly opened in bafflement, the twisting plants and gracefully bowing blossoms, the butterflies hovering here and there, the bees busying themselves.

"We're still inside the mountain, right?" he breathed.

"Yes," said Eunice, and she extended an arm to stop his progression.

They both watched, immobile, as Daphne moved through the green foliage, into a child's bedroom that appeared at the other end of the corridor. The door closed softly behind her.

"She will put her to bed," Eunice explained, without necessity. "We might as well let her do it. She has great skill with children."

"I think the kid managed to make her fall asleep in the Forest," said Harry. "So she would be left alone. Daphne burst out of a copse of trees when I got there."

Eunice threw at him a sharp look. "Clio likes to play tricks on people," she said slowly after a few minutes of silence. "Daphne will want to be more cautious."

"Yeah. So what's all this?"

Harry made a broad gesture encompassing the walls and ceiling, where the mess of vegetation stood, it seemed, at the beginning of a cheerful spring.

"This, Mr Potter, is the expression of our future Queen's power. I allowed it to run through these plants, so that it would not cause any accident while she was in her bedroom. It is canalised, as you see."

Harry was forcibly reminded of the Department of Mysteries, where a corridor with similar functions, made up of pure magic, stretched between Hermione's office and the Gearwheel Well. Yet nothing could be more different from the geometric perfection that had been Hermione's doing, than this chaos of living green…

The old Isiame extended a gnarly, thin hand from under the grey-blue robes she wore, and delicately picked from the wall a brand new leaf, of the most tender green.

"See this power," she said in a dreamy voice. "See the life and beauty it spawns. Here, in the depths of a sterile mountain, in the midst of winter — young life blossoms, month after month. This is what the Queen will be to us: life, youth, and beauty."

The last words expressed a yearning Harry had never heard yet in Eunice's voice. He glanced aside at her — powerful, but old, wizened, and suddenly looking overcome with weariness.

A thought suddenly unfolded in his mind — the question that had been bothering him for two weeks now, the source of his fight with Daphne forty-eight hours earlier, was burning his lips more than ever. Eunice seemed in a mood for confidences… If he wanted to get answers, now was the moment. Something was _off._

"If you already have a Queen," he said, choosing his words carefully, "what use am I to you? Why have you all treated me like the one you've been waiting for?"

Eunice turned fully to stare at him, and as always, there was something disturbing about those eyes, sunken and deep-blue, calling to mind a pair of centuries-old wells, which saw a lot more than they should.

For a moment Harry thought she would give him one of her evasive and mysterious riddles for sole reply. Then she started talking in a voice he had never heard before — dry, factual, and tinted with bitterness.

"I am tired," she said quietly. "My power keeps my people safe and secret, but soon will come the time when it won't be enough anymore. A balance was broken. For centuries we lay low in the dark, hidden and happy, while wizards erased everything related to us from their memory.

"Wizards… They have a deep-rooted fear to see Isiames rise from their ashes; for they associate Isiames with wild uncontrolled magic, with the natural catastrophes our power can provoke, with werewolves and other terrifying subjects of the Moon, with the ancient curses plaguing thirteen generations that wizards are powerless to break. That fear takes its roots in the times when wizards themselves were poorly trained, without the wands that give them an easy access to their own magic.

"Then over the centuries, the Founders' wish was granted: wizards were organised, trained, provided with wands. Just like civilised Muggles, who delight in their superiority over their fellow human beings, wizards now find satisfaction in the thought that they, among all creatures, are unmatched in their mastery of magical power. And so the decision of erasing Isiames from the magical memory was taken — for the wizards' own good, and to stop those who, out of greed or curiosity, would be tempted to stir the mud where Isiames had sunk. But the fear remained in those who still remembered.

"That age is over. Something — I do not know what, and it matters little — broke the balance. And now Sao, as you have already guessed, believes the time has come to overcome the wizards at last: she believes in conquering Hogwarts valley again, through war and bloodshed. To her, you are the one who will lead us all into battle."

Silence fell in the corridor, the kind of silence that reminded Harry that over his head were piled up thousands of tons of rock and ice.

Eunice resumed in a lower, calmer voice.

"To me, however, you could be the only Isiame on earth who may prevent that. The only one our people will follow into building a great nation — in secrecy, and safety. The Queen is too young, and I too old, for this purpose."

She inhaled deeply, her eyes still fixed on Harry's face, shivering slightly as though run through by a current.

"How can you be so sure," Harry asked tensely, "that I would follow you and not Sao?"

She had a small, joyless smile, as she resumed walking. "That is easy enough to answer. Even if Sao had not compromised her chances by hurting the wizards close to you, she would still fail to understand what I do: your parents were wizards. You were raised by wizards, in Hogwarts. You have known war, and you have fought a wizard claiming he would cleanse the magical race and submit the Muggles. You, of all people, know the dangers hiding behind talks of submitting those with lesser power for their own good."

Harry licked his chapped lips.

"And Sao doesn't get that," he said.

"No, unfortunately, she doesn't." Eunice sighed. "Her hopes first attached themselves to your mother. When she died, Sao thought she had forever lost the chance of seeing a great leader come to the Isiame nation."

"My mother? I thought you said she was a witch, not an Isiame? That the powers she had were only given to her because—"

"—because she had been chosen as a Knight. Yes. However, you forgot that she had the Royal Family's eyes! Which our little Queen herself shares! This very rare feature has been intriguing Sao — and myself, if I am to be honest — ever since we found out about Lily Evans's existence. At the time, I resolved myself to sit and watch. Sao, however, was convinced this young witch would give birth to the leader she had been waiting for."

"But she _did_ have a descendant when she died," Harry said, frowning, "I was one year old then. Why did you say Sao lost all hope?"

Eunice did not answer immediately; she seemed to be thinking of how best to word her explanations. There was, Harry was surprised to see it, a hint of embarrassment in her stance.

Before she could speak, understanding dawned on Harry.

"Sao didn't think I would fit, did she? She thought I'd be just another wizard?"

"Well, this is a good way to sum it up," Eunice admitted. "You see, we had failed to contact your mother and explain her duties to her. Soon after she left school, she grew more deeply involved into the war against the wizard Voldemort, and went from hiding place to hiding place. When she surfaced again, she had married a wizard."

"James Potter."

Eunice nodded. "Sao believed your mother's destiny would be compromised by her marriage. That any child she would have from a pureblooded wizard would never have any chance to be an Isiame. I even suspect that, in desperation, she contacted the wizard Voldemort."

Harry's entrails suddenly turned to ice. "Voldemort?" he repeated, his voice low, disbelief and anger growing into his words. "She and Voldemort were allies?"

Eunice sniffed disapprovingly. "Sao would never stoop so low as to form an _alliance _with a wizard, any more than a wizard would ever form one with a Muggle. However, we were a lot weaker, then, than we are now; we were powerless to locate her, and the uncertainty was bound to push Sao to desperate actions. She refuses to talk about that period, so we can only guess. All I know is that the magical spell shrouding your parents' home from our view was broken, on the 31st of October, twenty years ago."

"That wasn't Sao. My parents' Secret Keeper told Voldemort their location," said Harry.

Eunice nodded slowly, purposefully, and her grey head suddenly seemed too heavy for her.

"The wind took us there at once," she said in hushed tones, "for I feared for Lily's safety… We knew how much her involvement in the war endangered her life, and we knew the broken spell did not bode well… Sao, however, was curiously undisturbed. She said to me Voldemort was not interested in Lily, and that there was a good chance he would spare her."

Harry slowed down and stared at the old Isiame's back.

"He _meant_ to spare her," he said in bewilderment. "He told me so, when I was eleven. He hadn't planned for my mother to die."

"There you are, then." Eunice's voice came to him through the living corridor, ruffling leaves on its way. She did not sound surprised, or angry. "I did suspect that Sao would ask the wizard Voldemort to spare Lily; she was, as I understood it, of little interest to him… What worried me most was what Sao might have offered to trade for Lily's life… Of course, if such a bargain was made, following events ensured it had no consequence…"

Eunice stopped walking. As they talked, they had climbed the multi-coloured staircase and stood now a few steps from the main hall. The old Isiame looked exhausted; she gripped her staff with both hands and leant heavily on it. Harry had halted two steps below her and watched her hunched back. The only sound he could hear was the steady pounding of his heart, loud in his ears.

"Of course, when we discovered your parents' bodies… Sao believed everything was lost," said Eunice, her voice now thready. "And it was only… when the trees acknowledged you, four years ago… when you started using your power… that we both started hoping again. In vastly different ways."

She turned towards him her lined face, blue eyes sunk deeply into the orbits.

"Will you walk with me, Harry Potter?" she asked in a single expelled breath.

Harry stared up in her eyes, and he felt, once again, that those eyes held enough knowledge to have seen the beginning of the world.

"I don't believe in destiny," he said.

"But you believe in duty," said Eunice. "Don't you?"

"Yes, I do." He looked away, trying to think of an answer to give her; but this time he felt he could not temporise or remain neutral. His position was becoming too difficult to hold, not least because he was deceiving two people who were gradually earning his esteem — Robards and Eunice — letting each of them think he was working for the other team.

What did he want? Obviously, Sao's dreams of glorious conquest did not find an echo in his heart. Hogwarts stood where it was supposed to, at the edge of both worlds, and he did not care to see the castle taken down or the students and teachers driven out. His friends were all witches and wizards, with the exception of Daphne. Yes, wizards had betrayed him, yes, they were now hunting him down. And yet, he felt more of a wizard than he had ever done since the end of the war…

For equally obvious reasons, he found the idea of rallying the Unspeakables repugnant. Their uncharacteristic recklessness seemed to show that Isiames were more than mere study material to them; doubtless, guided by the same blinding fear that had caused wizards to erase Isiames from their memories, they wanted to find and destroy them — and Harry with them.

Robards, however, had not derailed from the exclusively investigating stance that had always been his. And all Eunice wanted was to live in peace, safe and secret.

Could he do that, while trying to solve the enigma of his origins? Could he help them bring both worlds to the point of equilibrium again?

That was a duty he seemed to have inherited — for he knew, at least, that he could not let things unravel as they promised to do.

"I will walk with you," he told the Governess of Isiames. "There will be no conquest, and the wizards won't trouble your people."

Eunice slowly bowed over her staff, without saying a word.

* * *

When she turned and started walking again, Harry followed her instinctively. The silence of their newly sealed pact accompanied them as Eunice led him up two floors, along one firelit corridor and to the small chamber Harry had already been in two days before, which she used as study and bedroom. The austere bed, chair and desk filled up most of the space. Along the walls, the fresco of green landscape under a sky that borrowed all the hues of day, night, and seasons, instantly drew Harry's gaze, as it had last time.

"Dawn is about five hours away," said Eunice. "Before you get some sleep, I would like to share a few things with you — things you will need to understand in the future."

She had a circular motion of her hand encompassing all the furniture, then pointed at the opposite wall; the bed, desk and chair rose a couple of inches in the air and obediently drifted from their initial spot to line up against the wall. At Eunice's invitation, Harry sat down on the cleared space of stone floor.

"Sao does not teach that kind of things," Eunice added softly. "And I have the strange feeling that we are running out of time…"

She sat cross-legged opposite him. Harry tried to focus on her, but the unravelling fresco around him kept intruding in his concentration; the rolling, green hills, the small painted characters, the swaying trees burst inside his field of vision, as though trying to swallow him up in their dream-like scenery.

"There are many sides to the Isiame power," said Eunice. Harry's eyes snapped back to her. She was observing him with a hint of a smile on her lined lips.

"Sorry," muttered Harry.

"It seduces the senses, appeals to the deepest feelings," Eunice went on with the same small knowing smile. "It enthrals through nostalgia, regrets, daydreaming, foreboding, fear of the unknown. It taps on forces that are uncontrolled, wilder, and more ancient than magic. Most Isiames are acquainted with elements, and may do such things as control — to various extents — the wind, the water, or the fire. However, contrary to wizards' magic, it gains power from alliances. Major spells are wrought by ideally three Isiames working together; the more people involved, the more powerful the spell is."

"So the spell you cast on St Mungo's Healers—"

"They found themselves irrationally worried for those of their patients suffering from acute conditions; the coma ward, which already gets fewer visits than it should, was completely abandoned for an entire six hours. The hospital is very distant and the targets of the spell were many, hence the gathering of twelve Isiames."

Eunice closed her eyes for a moment. Silence thickened in the room, a pregnant, expecting silence that eerily reminded Harry of the atmosphere in Dumbledore's office — even the tiny characters peopling the fresco seemed to be listening intently, as the old Headmasters' portraits used to, centuries ago, when Dumbledore had told Harry of the Horcruxes.

He broke the silence. "The kid — the Queen, I mean… She was acting alone tonight, when she cured my friends. Isn't it a major spell, though?"

"It is, and that is why she is Queen," said Eunice evenly, her eyes still shut. "That poison locked your friends' minds in their own dreams for over a year. It was too powerful to be broken by any other but the Queen — or, barring that, a combined effort of the entire people of Isiames. That is what has always distinguished the Royal Family from common Isiames: power, so considerable and so perfectly controlled, that it could be exerted alone.

"However, treating those wizards was an exceptional measure. It was with great difficulty that I talked the Old Council into accepting it. The Queen shall not make use of her power again until she is of age — it is too dangerous for her to use it."

There was another silence, and Harry measured for the first time how isolated Eunice was in her current position. She supported him so fully that she had gone against her own people, her own Queen's interest, to mend Sao's faults. She was, he understood, a firm ally — in an obstinate, underground way.

He was touched, despite himself, and his own double play made him feel uneasy before such gratuitous loyalty.

"The better you know your adversary," resumed Eunice, apparently unaware of the moral struggle taking place within Harry's head, "the easier it is for you to influence them. The better they know you, the easier it is for _them_ to counter your spell, should they recognise they are being enthralled. Thus it is a subtle art, which prefers suggesting over imposing, adapting to people's minds over forcing them into a predefined shape. Obvious and brutal spellcasters are vulnerable."

"So you… control people's minds." Harry shifted on the spot. The only person he knew to have implanted emotions into another's mind, was Voldemort — and it was _his_ mind he had been tampering with, the day he had sent Harry running headfirst into a trap by making him think his godfather was in danger.

Eunice had a faint smile that did not reach her eyes. "We _suggest_ emotions," she corrected him. "We make ourselves feel those emotions and project them onto receptive minds, where they cannot take root unless the receiver gives them substance. We initiate a process, then let it unravel."

"Why didn't Sao ever tell us any of this?" asked Harry, who vividly recalled the sessions on windswept, icy-cold plateaux. There had been no talk of mind or emotion-crafting then; it was all about catching balls of wind between their outstretched hands, making fire erupt from their frost-bitten fingers, or causing a stream to run across a few yards of stone before it was frozen solid.

"Sao's a warrior," replied Eunice, her voice a little sharper than before. It was clear she was still annoyed at her subordinate's independence streaks. "The power I speak of is hard to wield in battle. Sao is more versed in the more _ordinary_ Isiame power — forcing movement and intent upon dead matter. The simpler the matter is — the simpler the _concept_ being the matter is — the easier it is to bind to your will; hence, the use of elements."

"Fast and dirty."

"You may say so."

"I haven't been able to do anything willingly," Harry said before he could stop himself. It had been intriguing him for some time now, although he didn't feel much worried about it. He had been, on the other hand, considerably relieved to see he was still able to do magic like a wizard. He was an exception there: most Isiames who had started off as students in Hogwarts had never been very capable with a wand; Daphne was a fine example of that.

Eunice hesitated for a second before she answered — and Harry caught something that looked like concern on the old, wizened face, before she composed it into her usual serene expression.

"I have been told as much," she said. "It will come in time, though, I am sure. Maybe you're more apt for traditional spellcasting, as I have just described it to you."

Harry said nothing. He remembered how mediocre he had been at Occlumency, and at any form of what Snape called 'the subtler aspects of the art'. He doubted he could ever sit down with two of the Third Kind and try to suggest emotions to a foreign mind. His power, indeed, had been of the quick-and-dirty variety Eunice seemed to regard with slight disdain. Whether it had been blocking the air in Lance Colman's and the Unspeakable spy's throats, or sending a tidal wave crash over Malfoy, it had been brutal, uncontrollable, and deadly.

Uncontrollable. That was the thing. It had rushed to its fingertips whenever he had found himself possessed by fury or fear, but without any conscious thought from him; it had merely used him as a channel to carry out its task. Once he had begun, he had not been able to stop the on-going process.

_Carry out its task… _

"Does it have a mind of its own?" he asked aloud.

"What does?"

"The power."

Eunice stared wide-eyed at him and again, worry flicked across her face. "It is part of you," she said. "Your mind is its mind. Why would you ask such a question?"

"It's…" He shook his head. "Never mind."

His legs were aching. He uncrossed them and scrambled to his feet; he felt lightheaded and the fresco spun around him, a sea of green streaked with the silver of painted rivers and the misty blue of mountain peaks. A tinkering laughter reached his ears.

He shook his head and the room stabilised again.

"So, practice?" he said.

Eunice gazed up at him from under swollen lids.

"No, I don't think so," she said slowly. "I just had a thought. I have to… verify something. I will see you tomorrow night. In the meantime, maybe you should go back to Miss Greengrass's house and get some sleep."

Harry blinked, surprised at the abrupt dismissal.

"She'll be on duty, won't she? With the child?" he asked.

"Miss Greengrass does not watch over the Queen's sleep," said Eunice. "I have that honour still."

She was no longer looking at him; she seemed to have folded upon herself, and sat hunchbacked on the hard stone floor, staring down at her empty hands.

Harry almost asked what she was so keen on verifying — a strange declaration, coming from a woman who hardly ever seemed surprised by anything — but thought better of it. He was not too sorry that the session was cut short; he had a strange feeling that nothing would come out of it, and he was reluctant on showing Eunice how inept he was at handling the Isiame power.

He was nearly on the threshold when Eunice's voice came drifting back to him.

"Have you found out where the sword was?"

Harry froze on the spot. Eunice had not moved at all from her position on the floor.

"The sword?" he repeated, his mind blank.

"The sword, yes. Rosalyn's sword, which your mother picked up." Deep blue eyes shone briefly under the curtains of thinning grey hair. "Have you found out where it was?"

Harry backed up out of the room.

"No. I haven't." He fought to keep his voice even. "Did you expect me to look for it?"

Eunice's unerringly deep gaze dropped out of his sight again as she appeared to concentrate once more on her hands, lying in her lap like two broken, dead things. "It was just a passing thought. You are Lily's only son. While the sword was hidden from us, it might have… wanted to come to you."

She fell silent once again. Harry wheeled about and left the room, eager to get away from the fresco — _seducing the senses, appealing to the deepest feelings_ — eager to escape the internal struggle between instinctive gratitude and necessary wariness, eager to find Daphne again, so he could, at last, talk freely.

He thought he could hear a faint sound coming from the depths of the mountain as he hurried through the main hall — the same fleeting feeling he had experienced once here, that someone else was living, _intensely_ so, in the stone house.

But he now knew that a future Queen shared the house of the old Isiame leader. He thought no more of it.

* * *

Daphne was swifter, more silent than Harry remembered. The door opened soundlessly, offering to his sight a narrow triangle of pitch-black sky that vanished almost immediately; and she was inside the apartment. Through the open door separating the bedroom from the entrance Harry saw her snap her fingers. At once, tiny dancing flames sprang from under her fingernails, throwing a golden glow on her pale, drawn face. She held them up as naturally as though she had just clicked a lighter and moved into the bedroom.

She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Harry, who sat on the bed, twirling his wand in his fingers.

"Evening," said Harry, and he felt stupid at once for that shallow, flat greeting.

Daphne, however, did not seem to mind.

"Hey," she said. She stifled a yawn and came to sit next to him, so naturally that Harry, speechless, could only watch her take off her shoes and wriggle her toes with a contented sigh.

"Long day," said Daphne through another yawn.

"Yeah…"

He sounded heartfelt. Indeed, he had been gone from that bed, that room, that little house carved in the mountainside — for no longer than two days. It felt like ages.

"Tell me about the child," he said.

"It's been a long day," Daphne gently repeated. "We'll talk tomorrow."

She was acting as though nothing had happened, as though he had never threatened her, never sworn he would not trust her again, never stormed out of the Isiame city. She slid out of her clothes with no affected modesty, unhurried and calm, her gestures expressing nothing but weariness. Harry watched her slip under the covers and roll over in the foetal position. Her hair spilled out on her pillow and glowed palely against the dark bedspread.

He stretched back and propped himself up on his forearm, looking at her, thinking of his anger against her, of his uncontrollable surges of longing — longing for her irritating, passionate, loud, insubordinate presence. Then he thought of her new position of power alongside the Queen, of the magical spying device Robards had given him; the device which he was supposed to charm into place on her clothes.

Daphne's slow breathing filled the room. She was asleep.

Harry took the grass out of his pocket. It had taken the shape of a cloak fastener, but as he watched, it changed into a cufflink; and always small and boring, of an unassuming grey colour. He reached for Daphne's everyday robes, tapped his wand to the large, gleaming black button that fastened the collar shut, and it fell off. Harry pocketed the button and charmed the grass sewn in its stead. At once it grew larger and took the black sheen of obsidian. There was no discernible difference.

Except the little prickling Harry now felt against his thigh, where the original button was now hidden.

He arranged the robes on the floor so they appeared to be undisturbed and lay back, fully clothed on top of the sheets, next to Daphne's shape. They would talk the next day.

Dawn rose a few hours later, and found them both fast asleep.

Harry woke first. Daphne had rolled over and her face was a hair's width from Harry's folded arm; he could feel her breath glide over his skin.

His glasses had slipped off his face and were now trapped between his cheek and the pillow. He freed them with his right hand, without moving the arm close to Daphne's face, and put them on. As if on cue, Daphne's eyelids twitched, creased, and fluttered open.

"Hi," she mumbled.

Harry tried to grin in answer. The muscles of his face felt stiff, and he wasn't certain of the result. Daphne propped herself up on one elbow, leant over him, and between two curtains of tangled blonde hair she dropped a kiss on his mouth. The kiss was unexpected — yet Harry was struck by the absence of the passion and possessiveness that Daphne's kisses always had in abundance. It was not unconvinced, just serene and businesslike.

"I have to get to work," she added, as he still struggled to grasp the unsettling changes in her demeanour. She rolled onto her side in a sitting position, her bare back exposed to Harry's eyes as she bent over to retrieve her clothes. It was a beautiful back. There was something very young, very fragile and infinitely graceful in the long, perfectly aligned curves of her spine, in the slimness of the shoulders that outlined delicate bones, in the slenderness of the waist.

"What work?" he heard himself ask, his eyes glued to a spot between Daphne's shoulder blades.

"I'm in charge with the young Queen." She pulled a white tee-shirt over her head, her back arching to accompany the move; the shoulder blades vanished. "My experience with wizards' children helped. I could babysit a Blast-Ended Skrewt after that."

Harry sat up, now wide awake, as Daphne got to her feet and picked up her winter robes. "How long have you been babysitting that kid? What d'you know about her? What is she like?" he uttered, his words tumbling over one another in his haste.

Daphne had a fleeting moment of hesitation — barely discernible — but Harry picked it up.

"I've been doing it since yesterday," she said conversationally. "She's a really powerful child, you know. With Eunice and Sao as her mentors, she'll be the greatest Queen we could ever hope for. But right now, it's a mother she needs, not a pair of century-old teachers."

"Yeah, but who told you about her? No one ever mentioned anything, for as long as we've been here—"

"Only the Old Council knew. But Eunice had to tell the people about her when she decided to heal your friends, since everyone was supposed to help." Daphne's tone had turned a little acerbic. "They also needed someone to watch over her while it was done. That's when I volunteered."

Her golden head disappeared in the folds of her robes, and Harry heard her sniff in a disapproving sort of way. Harry could tell she was of the opinion that pulling arrows out of people's spines wasn't a suitable activity for such a young child. He could only agree; the image of the sweet little girl with blood-stained hands had imprinted itself in his memory, and he doubted he would ever get rid of it.

"Anyway," Daphne said, emerging through the collar of her robes, "I have to go. I need to be there when she wakes up, so Eunice can get some rest."

Harry watched her fasten the fake obsidian button, on the side of her collar. Something like regret and a little bit of shame bubbled in the pit of his stomach.

"Daphne, I have to tell you…"

Daphne stopped in the act of throwing her cloak over her shoulders and gave him an enquiring look. Her hair was still tousled, and it framed her face in a disarray of locks sticking out at absurd angles. She was lovely. She was unafraid. Harry was struck by the desire to keep her that way, but he could not hide that piece of information from her.

"Your sister, Chloe," he said. "She's gone missing. We suspect the Unspeakables got her. We're on her track."

Daphne's forehead creased, expressing — Harry was taken aback to see it — something that looked more like suspicion than alarm or worry.

"Who is 'we'?" she intoned slowly, carefully.

Harry's puzzlement grew. "My old team," he said. "A few Aurors," he elaborated quickly as he saw her frown deepen. "Not following the current line of the Ministry. A couple of Aurors were killed by the Unspeakables, and my Head of Department is on the warpath. We're right behind the ninth-floor — Daphne, they wanted Chloe because Sao got her to arrange our meeting, you know that! The Unspeakables are closing in on the Isiame city…"

"You allied yourself with a few _wizards_," Daphne repeated in the same careful intonation, "to protect the city from the Unspeakables?"

Harry stared at her, infuriated that she did not seem to get his point.

"I'll ally myself with anyone that's willing to stop these guys from killing more innocents!" he ground out, sliding off the bed and getting to his feet so as to be level with Daphne. "Something changed, something made them afraid of Isiames — more afraid than they've been in centuries! The Minister is backing them up—"

"The _Minister,_" Daphne interrupted, and Harry was stunned to see she was smiling, almost fondly — if Daphne Greengrass could ever wear such an air — at him. "His Unspeakables, his Aurors. They're all wizards, Harry — just wizards. They're nothing to us. We don't fear them."

Harry took two steps forwards and reached up, seized those thin shoulders in his hands and squeezed hard, trying to communicate through the contact some of the urgency he was feeling.

Something in the way she said 'we' — in the way they _all_ said 'we' — struck the wrong cord within him.

He wanted to tell her it wasn't a good moment to be careless or arrogant. He needed her to know the menace was real. In the end, what came out of his mouth was, "I'm not an Isiame."

Daphne's smile faltered. "What?"

"I'm not," he insisted, feverish. "I — I can feel it. I feel better here, but it's as if I was being transfused with someone else's life. I can't use the Isiame power, _it_ uses _me._ I am a wizard, Daphne, I'm sure of it. You have to believe me."

Why this was so important, he did not know. But he squeezed her shoulders harder, his face bent towards hers so that their breaths mingled.

"You have to believe me," he repeated. "I don't know why I can do… what it is I can do. I don't know why the Forbidden Forest picked me. My only lead is, it picked my mother before me. You saw it: it gave her a sword, and the sword went missing when my mother died. The Head Unspeakable — Martin — he got hurt in the process, somehow. And now he wants my head, yours, Eunice's—"

"Harry, stop that, you're hurting me," Daphne snapped, seizing his wrists.

Harry loosened his hold on her. She looked much more like her old self now — no longer brimming over with that kind of calm confidence, but alert, suspicious, her eyes alive with defiance mingling with a kind of vague apprehension, her mouth set in a stubborn line.

"Why does that matter?" she hissed at him. "I mean, sure, your mother and all that — but why can't you just _let it go_ for now, let them break their teeth on our mountains, they can't get in, they can't find us! So what if you're not really an Isiame? It barely shows. Sao and Eunice are so taken with you, they will only believe it if you club them with your wand, and the others — the others haven't lived with you, they can't have noticed anything…"

"You knew?" Harry blurted out. "I only just figured it out, but _you_ knew?"

"I—" Daphne glanced left and right, frantically, her eyes wide open in terror of being overheard. "I suspected something. You don't _feel_ like the others. You're still really good with a wand, you do everything with wizards' magic, you're… you look better and more relaxed when you're here, but you're not _fond_ of the place. But it doesn't matter, act normal and happy and they'll buy it!"

"Happy? Why is _that_ so important?" Harry threw up his hands and let them fall back to his sides, curled into fists; he started pacing to refrain from the urge of grabbing Daphne again and shaking her back to reality. "The Unspeakables are eliminating people. It's personal. It's been personal for a long time, judging from how harsh they've been. It's connected to all those injuries Martin got, twenty years ago. He was hurt by Third Kind power."

"Isiame," Daphne corrected him sharply. "_Isiame._"

"And now he's after their blood. He's started killing people standing in his way, and I have friends working for me on the wizards' side, they're in danger."

Daphne's mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. "Oh, yeah? Who? Your little brunette waitress?"

Harry stopped pacing, taken aback by the hostility in Daphne's voice.

She caught the look on his face and scoffed. "Oh, don't worry — I'm not going to shoot her in the arse with a green arrow, as much as I'd like to. That's how she'll probably end up, anyway, if Sao suspects you're seeing her."

"I imagine," Harry said, his voice a little hoarse. "She doesn't like people hooking up with wizards, does she? She's worried about how _pure_ my offspring should be, right?"

"I knew you'd say that. You're probably going to say she's no better than You-Know-Who, too, aren't you? And go into a crusade?"

As she spoke, she had finished fastening her cloak to her left shoulder and now stood, ready to go out, her gloved hands on her hips.

Harry drew a little closer to her. "Whose side are you on?" he demanded. "What're you playing at?"

Daphne shook her head, slow and obstinate.

"If you still need to ask, Potter, you don't deserve to know."

"Oh, now listen—"

"Let me ask you something," she snarled in a low, low voice. "If someone took the only person in the world who's ever loved you — really loved you, just the way you were, without afterthought or bargaining; if they twisted their mind, turned them into their personal slave and spy, and finally abandoned them to their fate… whose side would you be on?"

Harry bit down on his lower lip. The feeling of shame that had been growing in his stomach was now trying to claw its way out of his chest.

"Oh, don't try to save me," Daphne snorted. "You have that look on your face again — as though it's all your responsibility and you're going to make everything right all by yourself. I'm used to people not liking me, Potter. I'm used to doing everything on my own, and to counting only on my sister's help. Now they've taken her, well, I don't need your help to get her back. And I don't need your help either to kill that _bitch_ Sao_._"

She had spat the word with enough venom to burn a hole in the threadbare carpet on the stone floor.

"But it would help me, though, if you didn't give her reasons to suspect you," she went on more calmly. "While I'm near the child, I'm near the centre of things — near Sao, Eunice, and the Old Council. I have a chance to do something to hurt her. But the day Sao suspects you, she suspects me; then she'll take the little Queen away and raise her to do exactly as _she_ says, and I'll lose my only leverage."

She grabbed her bag and walked to the door, throwing over her shoulder as she went: "And if I'm late, she'll suspect something, too. So, _please,_ stay put and don't get yourself killed. I'll be back tonight at nine."

The door slammed shut behind her.

Harry swayed on the spot for a couple of seconds.

Then he started grinning. He knew what she was doing — this entire scene had been retaliation for the way he had yelled and threatened her, two days before. And there was also the warm relief that blossomed in his chest, loosening a tight knot he had not known was there: he no longer had to worry about Daphne Greengrass's loyalty. The thought of her possible duplicity had lurked in the back of his mind for two days, alarming, dangerous for his plans, and unpleasant in a deeper way he could not quite explain. But that was over: Sao had definitively alienated herself to the catty Slytherin the day she had harmed her sister Chloe.

And Daphne Greengrass, as he was learning, could take care of herself in the Isiame world.

He would not, though, lie low as she had suggested. He had to plan ahead with Eunice, and figure out Sao's schemes to take over the Isiame nation. Things were speeding up — who knew who the Unspeakables would hit next…

Realisation hit him brutally, and he felt the blood drain from his face. _He _knew.

It was obvious. Ron and Luna were about to wake up and recover. They had to be taken away from St Mungo's.

Harry grabbed his cloak and rushed outside. The air bit into the skin of his face with frosty teeth, the slithering wind brought hot tears to his eyes and attacked his bare fingers; he struggled through the foot-deep snow and over the thin layer of ice covering the passageway, hurrying to get to the edge of the city, where his spellcasting would have no witness.

A couple of people called out to him, and one of them reminded him Sao's practical class had already begun. He waved vaguely in answer.

At last, under cover of two huge slabs of black rock streaked with white, bizarrely sticking out from the side of the mountain like two fingers forming a defiant 'v', Harry cast his Patronus.

_Ron, Luna and the Head Healer are in danger. Find them a safe place. Be quick, be quiet._

The great silvery stag stared into Harry's eyes and inclined slowly its head, heavy with huge twisting antlers, as it registered the message Harry had woven into the charm. Then it whirled about, bounded lightly over the black slabs and up the snow-covered mountain, towards Hogwarts.


	22. The Allies

**Chapter Twenty-One – The Allies**

The atmosphere in the Isiame City was changing. The restlessness of the wizarding world was brimming over the mountaintops, coursing down the slopes like a dust avalanche and spreading through the streets and into stone dwellings. Apprehension, excitement and a diffuse malaise electrified the air. Harry scarcely met the people of the city — he did his best to avoid them, as a matter of fact — but whenever he ran across one of them as he left or entered Eunice's house, he could feel on his skin the tight smiles and the knowing looks.

He knew they wondered at his absence at Sao's practical lessons. Those were slowly turning into combat training, and Harry, who was still convinced he could not master his power enough to fool the Isiames much longer, was keen on avoiding awkward situations. It would be a great way to make them stop thinking of him as a war leader, he thought moodily. But he needed their trust.

He had had no news of Ron and Luna. The contrary would have been surprising: Tonks was too professional to send a message to an undercover Auror when they were both working against their own Ministry. Yet the lack of information frustrated him, adding to the general tension.

Five days after he had cast his Patronus to warn Hogwarts about Ron and Luna's recovery, he stepped into Eunice's room at dawn, as usual, to find her sitting at her desk and poring over the _Daily Prophet._

"I wouldn't read that if I were you," he said as he closed the door with his heel. "Pile of rubbish."

"I have seen the birth of that pile of rubbish, two hundred years ago," answered Eunice serenely. "Rubbish it may well be, but the truth often leaks from between the lines. You just need a little practice to see it."

Harry crossed over to the small desk, hooked one foot around the leg of a stool that had been pushed against the wall, and dragged it over to him to sit next to the governess. The strangeness of seeing venerable Eunice reading a wizarding newspaper notwithstanding, he caught himself wishing he could have it from her when she was done, and feed himself with some news from over the mountains.

However she seemed to have something else entirely in mind. He bit down his mounting impatience and asked, as she expected, "So what truth is leaking from it?"

Eunice leant back and shot at him an odd little smile from the corner of her thin, lined mouth.

"Here," she said, and extended her open hand over the newspaper. "See how it leaks."

Harry stared down at the tiny printing surrounding a black-and-white photograph of a grim-looking Rufus Scrimgeour, speaking at a lectern. His mouth moved slowly and reluctantly as though he was chewing out the words rather than speaking them. For a few seconds, nothing happened.

Then Harry felt confused, uncertain. Something was wrong, but he could not put his finger on it. He should look into the matter; but his instinct told him dangerous powers were at work, he might lose more than just his job if he poked into business that wasn't his—

All of sudden the vague concern vanished. Harry's head filled up with bitterness. He hated how powerless he was, how much of a pawn he had become. He hated it. He hated _them. _

_Wait. This isn't me,_ Harry realised suddenly in alarm._ This isn't _ME.

There was an explosion, and the back of Harry's head hit something with a force that sent bells ringing into his ears.

He opened his eyes to find himself sprawled on the floor at the far end of the room, his head against the wall, pain throbbing from a spot at the back of his head; there was an acrid scent in his nostrils. His wand was gripped tightly in his right hand. Eunice still sat at her desk but her hand was no longer hovering over the _Daily Prophet — _it was outstretched towards Harry, the last two fingers folded and the other three spread wide, in the Isiame cursing gesture.

And there was a hole in the wall beside her head, which, along with the sharp smell, was characteristic of a Blasting spell.

Harry looked down at his smoking wand and winced.

"I did not expect wizarding magic," Eunice said in her usual light, matter-of-fact manner. "Otherwise, your reaction was appropriate."

Harry straightened up and brought his free hand up to the back of his skull. A lump as large as an egg was already forming; he flinched when his fingers brushed against the tender skin.

"You pushed these feelings inside my head," he said. His voice sounded tight to his own ears. "But they weren't yours."

"No, indeed. I first managed to extract the feelings of the journalist typing down the words he heard — he was male, that much I can tell. Young, spotty, anxious and cowardly, but sharper than most of his colleagues."

"You can _do_ that?"

"Of course, although few can do it as easily and completely as I can." Eunice watched Harry closely as he scrambled to his feet, put his wand away and walked back to his stool. He was pretty sure she saw how wary he was — he was not trying to hide it.

"I have a little gift in the matter," she went on. "And I have had centuries to hone it. People always put a bit of themselves into the words they're writing. The vocabulary, the phrasing, the punctuation. They tell me a lot about the author. Emotions are there, captured by the words."

"Leaking from between the lines," Harry muttered. "But the second set of thoughts—"

"Mr Scrimgeour's thoughts, as I reckon you have guessed. The journalist was quoting him. He was thinking back of the moments he had spent in the same room as Mr Scrimgeour. During these few minutes when they breathed in the same air, he watched Mr Scrimgeour's thoughts swirl inside his mind and speak through his moves, voice, and eyes, even though he did not know what they meant at the time. _Also, _we have the picture. It helps."

Harry looked down at the Minister's picture. The way the former Auror's thin mouth was shut tight when he wasn't speaking, the way his gnarled hands gripped the sides of the lectern, the way he glared at his audience, everything about him was eerily consistent with the bitter thoughts that had invaded Harry's mind.

"Extracting Mr Scrimgeour's emotions from the journalist's is a bit of a trick," said Eunice. "It's highly dangerous. I have to let myself be filled with the journalist's thoughts, until I can no longer tell whether I am he or myself. Then, and then only, do I have access to an upper level. If I want to go back to my own mind I need something, an anchor of some sort, a thought that tells me I truly am Eunice of the Isiames and not a young wizard suffering from acne."

She had a slight smile. "It is not your average Isiamic spell-casting."

"And you said my reaction was appropriate," Harry repeated. "Because you attacked me, right?"

"My mind against yours. Thoughts thrown into your brain like a Trojan horse. However, I did not make it too subtle: I did not disguise the thoughts as your own. You did catch on a lot faster than I expected, though."

Harry snorted humourlessly and felt again the lump at the back of his head with his fingers.

"Did you understand what Mr Scrimgeour was feeling, Harry?" murmured Eunice.

"Yes." Harry stared down at the Minister's disgusted expression again. "He's acting on behalf of the Unspeakables, but he doesn't like it."

"Precisely. Mr Scrimgeour's thoughts fit with a lot of small, disturbing details I had noticed without understanding them over the past few months: there is division inside the Ministry of Magic, something I had not dared hope before today. The Aurors' association with our enemies sounds most unwilling; and reluctant allies are worse than declared adversaries.

"There is more to it, though. Had you not rejected me so fast, you would have heard two names filling the Minister's mind. Two faces. His only hope. He clings to these two names so dearly, they sprang readily at me when I first investigated this article."

The old governess cocked her head to one side, watching Harry intently.

"One is me," Harry guessed.

"A good surprise," agreed Eunice. "It was my impression that you were abandoned by all your former friends, but it seems some of them would like to see you overcome our enemies. I don't know of the other one, though. Who is Gawain Robards?"

Harry did not blink. "The man who succeeded Scrimgeour as Head Auror."

"Your superior," Eunice said.

"My boss, yes."

The old Isiame leant back in her chair, looking up at Harry with such intensity he found himself preparing to another mental attack. Defiance tightened the silence.

"Are you in contact with—"

"How did you think I managed to investigate about you?" snapped Harry. "By asking for a vacation? I was on a mission for him. The wolves in Frog's End. I gave him a wrong trail to keep him busy, and I kept up my own work."

Eunice did not move. Her expression did not change at all.

After a few seconds of silence, Harry found it hard to hold her gaze. He averted his eyes and stared down at the newspaper instead, but there was no escaping the feeling of discomfort that made itself sharper and sharper, making him want to squirm on his stool. Eunice was friendly to him. For five days now, she had mentored him cautiously, teaching him the inside workings of the Isiame City, the alliances Sao cultivated, the many sides of the Isiame powers. She risked everything helping him. And here he was — lying. Again.

Isolating himself. Again.

Discomfort turned to shame, guilt, and weariness. He was alone, desperately alone, because he knew how much each faction hated one another — and he could not let go of either facet of himself: the wizard, and the Isiame… But Eunice was not so hostile. She wanted peace. She was as close to an ally as he could wish in his hopeless situation.

And here he was, lying to push her away_._

Harry looked up from the _Daily Prophet_ and met Eunice's eyes again. He felt his lips stretching into a stiff smile.

"So I suppose that was strike two," he said.

The eerie stillness in Eunice's eyes was suddenly broken, and she smiled back at him, something fierce in her expression that Harry had never seen before.

"You have talent, Harry Potter," she said, her voice low and vibrant. "And you guard your thoughts well."

Harry shrugged. He felt stiffness in his shoulders and neck, as though he'd sat too straight for too long. "Yeah, well, I've lived through a few attempts to butt into my head and feed me emotions," he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand.

"Stiff neck?" asked Eunice. When he nodded, she leant forward and went on in that same low, hard voice he did not know, "Mental struggles can lead to that sort of manifestations. You may pay close attention to them when you deal with Isiames — if you feel cramps you should not be feeling, it might just be that your mind suffered an intrusion without you noticing."

A chill went up Harry's spine. Staying among Isiames, at least half of whom were following Sao's lead, while he claimed to be something he wasn't was starting to make him edgy. He tightened his lips together and answered Eunice with a nod, which she returned, something like grim approval etched in the lines of her face.

"I will speak no further of Gawain Robards, Harry Potter," she said. "Think of what is at stake and make your own decisions — and know that, should you fail to make the right ones, the wizarding and Isiame worlds will dissolve in the bloodiest war we've known in a millennium."

* * *

"The bloodiest war in a millennium," Daphne said, enunciating the words as though wanting to nail them to the wall. "Well, she's not afraid of big words."

"Wizards would put up a fight," Harry pointed out. "They outnumber you."

"Yeah, if you count only Isiames. But we would have Dementors on our side — maybe even werewolves, if we could use the moon's influence."

Harry blinked and looked over at her from the windowsill where he sat, scrutinizing the night — as he always did, every evening before going to sleep, since his return. "Dementors," he repeated, pensively. "Of _course._ That's what the whole emotions-projecting stuff reminded me of. I couldn't place it…"

"Me neither, until today." Daphne ripped her left boot from her foot, threw it across the room and dropped onto the bed with a sigh. "I thought I knew all there was to know about babysitting, but the Queen's taking the game to a whole new level. When I decided to give her a bath, that wretched kid tried to make me cry. Nearly succeeded, too. She threw despair at me, and it was just like that time when a Dementor searched my carriage in the Hogwarts Express, in second year. Awful brat."

An icy feeling of foreboding seeped into Harry's chest, and he thought for a fleeting moment he could feel cold, clammy fingers closing upon his throat.

_I want the doggy._

"That bad, uh?" he muttered, his teeth clenched on the disturbing memories.

"Fortunately she has the attention span of a caterpillar," Daphne said wryly. "She giggled and lifted the pressure after maybe two seconds. But yeah, Dementors… They were created as Isiame weapons. I asked Lydia — you know, our neighbour. They're vessels made out of negative emotions that could be projected onto the enemy. Then their makers lost control of them, something like a thousand years ago, and they started breeding."

"But Isiames could regain control of them?"

"I bet you anything it's part of Sao's plan, anyway."

Harry fell silent. He was starting to realise how far the conflict between Isiames and wizards reached. The werewolves ransacking Hogsmeade was just a foretaste of the ravages Isiames could cause to wizarding villages — and if Sao truly could control Dementors, then the wizards were at risk of finding themselves at a serious disadvantage.

A random, completely unrelated thought came to interrupt his musings — Daphne had spoken about Lydia, _their neighbour._

They — he and Daphne — had a _neighbour?_

Harry threw a circular look around the room that served as their home, with the feeling he was seeing it for the first time. Daphne had started decorating it with comfortable, second-hand furniture that suited his tastes surprisingly well. He who had never paused to think about the way his own apartment was furnished, back in London, found himself appreciative of the thick curtains, the faded carpet and the couple of low armchairs huddling across from the bed. His things piled up on a bandy-legged bedside table. The pillows were mismatched and fluffy, with threadbare pillowcases.

The whole sight was that of a joyous, careless and welcoming mess. It felt like home.

And for the first time, he thought about _after — _after the war, after the plots, after the scheming and the manoeuvring. Once Isiames would be a peaceful, hidden but lively nation, and wizards would be ready to be pacific neighbours.

Maybe, he mused, surprising himself with the thought — maybe he ought to take Daphne out properly after all this.

She caught his gaze; out of instinct he tried to compose his features into a neutral mask, but her face softened in a sudden, unexpected way that made him suspect she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Then she had a crooked smile.

"Once this is all over, Potter, I'll take you out for a night. I haven't had a proper night out in ages," she drawled, ostentatiously tossing her hair to one side.

Harry smiled back at her.

The moment stretched between them like a silk thread, fragile and tense. Then silver flashed outside the window Harry leant against — something that would be mistaken by anyone who wasn't expecting it as a reflection of starlight against the snowy slopes. Harry caught it out of the corner of his eye and started, whipping his head to stare out into the night.

When he looked at Daphne again, she was straightening up and her face was closed up again.

"Work?" she asked briefly.

He nodded. Her mouth twisted into the wary, sardonic smile she often had for him.

"Be back tomorrow night," she said. "We run with the pack."

"I remember," he said sharply. His thoughts were taking him to the silvery light that simmered behind an asperity of the mountains, now invisible from the city. He had already thrown his cloak over his shoulders and opened the door when Daphne's voice carried to him into the night.

"Be careful."

He did not reply, but again, cold foreboding tightened his chest.

Outside reigned one of these still winter nights, with a black empty sky that gave a vertiginous feeling to anyone looking too deeply into it. The stars, tiny and dead, emphasized the blackness instead of piercing it, and inhuman cold seeped from the sky and settled over the earth. Walking through that night, Harry felt like an intruder, a foreign body — too warm, too alive, too gesticulating. There was not a soul in sight, the windows were blind and the houses silent. He quickened his steps.

The enormous, shaggy form of a werewolf-shaped Patronus crouched on the frozen path, well away from the city. As it saw Harry draw closer it opened its jaws and spoke in Tonks's voice:

"_We hit a wall. Need you now. Hagrid's hut."_

The werewolf dissolved, leaving Harry in the dark.

It did not last long. Sudden moonlight bathed the mountain and reflected off the long snowy slopes, spreading over the world a long, blue, dead luminescence. Harry looked up to see the moon that had just come out of a string of cloud; it was almost full.

_We run with the pack tomorrow night._

Harry shrugged into his wolf form as easily as he would slip into a coat. He would have to be back at dawn.

* * *

He did not leave the wolf's warm fur until he was at the very edge of the Forbidden Forest, and by then, the influence of the Isiame city had receded and he no longer suffered from the cold. Hagrid's hut sat, squat, dark and utterly lifeless, at a few feet from the last rank of sycamore trees. The shutters were all tightly closed and the chimney did not let through the slightest wisp of smoke.

Harry slid from tree to tree, his wand out and ready, his eyes locked onto Hagrid's front door. His footsteps were muffled in the thick layer of snow covering the ground. He was starting to suspect Tonks had been coerced into sending the message to lure him out, when the door opened a fraction and someone peered out at him.

"Is that you, Harry?" said an absent, dreamy voice he had not heard in over a year. "I thought I saw the trees move. We're all here, come in!"

The door swung wide open and Harry had to lift an arm against the torrents of light that rushed out. Someone took his hand and gently tugged to lead him inside; he took a blind step forward, tripped against something hard and almost fell face-first onto the floor.

When he recovered his balance he found himself in the middle of a furnace: the hut was flooded with the light of a great roaring fire and of hundreds of candles hovering in mid-air between the hams, strings of sausage and plucked chicken that hung from the beams. Hagrid's coats and jackets had been used to mask the windows, blocking the light that might have filtered out by the cracks between the shutters. A Fanning Charm cast its own bluish glow near the ceiling, squeaking feebly as its ghostly blades spun and spun, sucking in the smoke generated by the fires.

All this light, almost too bright to bear, fell upon a heap of swords gathered in the middle of the hut.

There were dozens of them; rapiers and broadswords, sharp and chipped, whole and broken. A few were rusted, most were gleaming as though they had just been pulled out of the smithy. Every sword ever hidden in Hogwarts seemed piled up on the floor of Hagrid's hut, and the atmosphere had a metallic, bellicose smell to it.

"They wouldn't come anywhere else," Luna commented. "This is neutral ground."

Harry tore his eyes from the mountain of blades and looked at her enquiringly. She was thinner than he remembered, but otherwise she was disturbingly like… Luna Lovegood. As though she had just come back from a short vacation, rather than out of a year-long coma.

Ron, Tonks, Romilda and McGonagall leant against the wall, looking down at the swords. Professor Parletoo lay in Hagrid's bed, waxed-faced and breathing a little too fast. He tried to smile at Harry but even that seemed to require tremendous efforts.

As for Hagrid, he was in the remote corner of his hut, struggling to rest against the wall the gigantic oak table that usually stood in the middle of the room. Due to the lack of space it could not stand on its four feet, and it seemed absolutely averse to being put in a vertical position.

"Effing thing," Hagrid growled, catching the table as it toppled over once more.

"So what do you think, Harry?" asked Luna in a bright voice, as though exhibiting her latest work of art.

"Something is escaping us," Professor McGonagall said irritably. "None of the swords fit either description; and they all feel… familiar… unlike anything that would have belonged to the Third Kind. And yet the lost swords are here, I'm sure they are."

Harry stared, puzzled, at the gleaming heap of metal. "How can you be sure?" he asked.

He felt at once that he had touched a sensitive spot. McGonagall's lips went thinner than ever, Tonks let out a growl of frustration and Romilda and Ron sagged a little against the wall of the hut, as though in weariness.

"We didn't exactly comb the castle stone by stone, Harry," said Tonks. "Professor McGonagall used old enchantments built into the walls of the castle, to gather round all weapons ever used in the defence of Hogwarts."

"That was no garden-party, I assure you," McGonagall said through gritted teeth. "The enchantments may be triggered only if war is threatening to crash down upon Hogwarts. I had to persuade everyone from the suits of armour to the ghosts, portraits, centaurs, merpeople and — Merlin help me — _trees, _that Hogwarts should prepare to war_. _Not to mention the fact that the other teachers had to be notified, and the students warned. Only then was the castle ready to receive the weapons that might defend it."

"And when _that_ was done, we had to sort out the swords from the other rubbish," said Ron. "You should've seen the stuff that flew out of the dungeons and Room of Requirement — arrows, stones, catapults, spiky stuff I couldn't even name… Then we had to find a location away from the patrolling ghosts and portraits," he completed in a groan.

"We thought the Third Kind sword would like to be in a place near the Forest," Luna interjected. "This is why it's neutral ground, see?"

"And now we can't find them," Romilda concluded, sounding completely disheartened. "At least one of the two swords was used to defend Hogwarts, that's what Eric de Pallas's portrait told me — a sword crafted for defensive purposes! It _should_ be there. It should have answered the enchantment. And we can't find it."

"At any rate we cannot reach further," said McGonagall. "Either Pallas's sword is there, or it's lost."

She stared hard at Harry. "And for our sake I hope it is there, Potter; because now Hogwarts is getting ready for a war."

"It has to be there," Harry breathed, staring into the swords. The new hope that had arisen in his chest when he had seen Tonks's Patronus was now mingling with anxiety. They were seven of them, and they had not found the swords — how could he help?

He took a step forward; he could feel the others' eyes glued to the back of his neck. The first sword he pulled from the heap was very familiar.

"Gryffindor's," he murmured.

"The first weapon to answer the call," said McGonagall's voice, somewhere behind him.

Harry stared for a second at the rubies of the hilt. The sword felt right in his hand — its weight was perfectly balanced, its edge sharp as ever, the hard metal giving a feeling of solidity against his palm. It wanted to be used.

He set it aside and went back to the search.

"Waste of time," spat out Tonks as he cautiously picked up a broken blade by its point. "We looked at all of them, all—"

"Hush," said Ron unexpectedly. "Harry might find it. I agree with Luna on that, it's exactly the kind of stuff that happens to him."

Harry glanced up at Luna, who gave him a kind smile.

"Ron and I were thinking the swords might be hiding from us," she said. "And that they would recognise you, and come to you."

There was a small snort from behind Harry, and Ron coughed uneasily. "Well, I didn't voice it quite like—"

"Shhh, Ron," Luna whispered.

A heavy silence settled in the hut as seven people watched Harry with redoubled intensity. The too-bright light bounced off the innumerable edges and facets of the forged iron, forcing Harry to squint, and the acrid smell from the fire was stinging his nose. He cast away one sword after the other with increasing discomfort. No sword matched the memory he had.

"Okay, this makes no sense," Tonks said brutally after several long, silent, painful minutes. "Stop that, Harry. I don't know — I just don't know _why_ we spent so much time on that lead, it takes us nowhere. Those swords could be anywhere, and even if we found them, what would they tell us? What could they possibly—"

"Something happened," Harry murmured, and she fell quiet as abruptly as if he had yelled at her. "Something happened with those swords. At my parents' death, they were supposed to go back to their makers. They didn't. My parents _did_ something to the swords before they died. They broke the sequence."

A log gave a loud crack, sparks firing from a slit in the coiling bark. Harry knelt before the pile of swords that towered over his head. The argument he had repeated to himself over and over again, hoping against reason it would lead him somewhere, curiously made more sense right now — now when his hopes were thinning every minute — than it had ever had.

"They had the swords," he went on, louder this time, speaking to a stone-still audience. "They received them when they were fifteen. They were supposed to be enemies, Wizard Knight against Isiame Knight. But instead of killing each other, _they got married. _And the swords vanished, Martin started investigating into the Third Kind, the Third Kind woke up, the balance was broken…"

"Lily had the other sword?" McGonagall's voice was blank. "Lily Evans?"

Harry stared around the cabin, thinking furiously. Romilda was right, the Wizard Knight's sword must have been called up by McGonagall's enchantment; however, in Harry's imagination, both swords had vanished together — and he had always assumed they had been hidden together. After all, the Wizard Knight had married his Isiame counterpart. It would make sense if the two swords had been, likewise, linked together.

So if one was there, the other might be, too.

But where?

He vaguely heard the others talking over his head, arguing heatedly in worried voices; he did not listen, busy following the fragile thread of his thoughts. Then he caught Luna's absentminded accents in the background; a trigger was pulled.

_Were the swords in neutral territory?_

He cast another circular look around him. The hut of the Keeper of Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts. Not a belligerent character, but a Hogwarts partisan through and through…

The wind whistled around the door.

He had tripped when he had walked in.

He sprang to his feet so fast that his shoulder rammed into Ron's chest; thrown off-balance, Ron tried to hold on to both Tonks and Romilda, and the noisy fall of the three of them among Hagrid's wooden crates brought the argument to an abrupt end. Harry barely registered what was happening. Loud swearing rang behind him as he opened the door of the hut and crouched down, hands extended blindly in the pitch-black night, feeling the snow on the slick stone steps.

A hilt found itself under his fingers where there was only air a second before. His brain filled with nothing but the sound of blood beating loudly, dully, and fast, Harry pulled a long heavy sword from the doorstep of the Keeper of Keys.

* * *

When light fell upon the sword, there were eight sharp intakes of breath.

On one side, it was a wide-bladed sword with the broad golden hilt of Middle-Aged knights. A single emerald shone venomously on the hilt, and the blade was decorated with long sinuous lines that coiled and twisted in the shape of smoky wisps.

Harry turned it over.

The sword suddenly looked slimmer. Darker, more severe, the hilt was soberly decorated with lines of braided silver. The blade itself was carved with perfect pentagons.

Harry weighted the sword in his hand. It was heavy, a lot more than it should be, and felt wrong, dangerous, and powerful. He was having trouble keeping it upright and had to rest the tip on the floor between his feet.

"I did look on tha' threshold, Professor McGonagall, I did," Hagrid said in an uncertain voice. "I — I swept the grounds all around me house, I did! That thing wasn't there!"

"We all walked in without problem," said Luna. "Only Harry tripped over it. It wouldn't show itself to anyone else."

"For good reason," Ron interrupted, from the floor where he struggled to put back in the crates several unidentified things of vegetal nature that Hagrid stored there. "Ugly thing."

"If you can't think of anything smart to say, Weasley, silence is greatly recommended," said McGonagall. "So it appears you were right, Potter. Mystery's solved. The swords are both there, reunited in one. They were dragged out of their hiding place because the Wizard half responded to the Defence Enchantment, and they would not come inside the hut because of the Third Kind half. Now are your parents truly responsible for melting the swords into one…?"

"The blade," Romilda suddenly said. "Look at the blade!"

Harry peered down at the sword. Both sides of the blade were darkened with what he thought at first to be grime, covering the markings. He frowned, and raised the sword closer to his eyes.

"It's not dirt. It's writing, isn't it? Someone wrote all over the sword!"

Now he could see them, the tiny characters etched into the iron, covering the blade from side to side. They were so small and so close together he could hardly make out the words…

"_My name is James Potter and I have been given this sword and the duty— _Damnit, I can't read the rest, it's too small," said Romilda, who was closest. "Turn it over? Harry?"

Numbly, Harry complied. The emerald shimmered sullenly again.

"Here it is too! _My name is Lily Evans and I have been given— _I really can't make out the rest, but with the proper tools I bet I could decipher it all!" Romilda said excitedly. "Would you lend it to me, Harry?"

"No."

He looked up to see seven startled faces staring back at him; he wasn't sure they were as surprised as he was by his own answer. He fumbled with the two-faced sword, trying to find words to explain the abrupt certainty that had filled him as soon as his fingers had closed on the hilt.

"The sword is mine. I have to keep it," he said lamely.

"Okay," said Romilda, raising her hands in a soothing gesture.

"_Not_ okay!"

It was Ron who had spoken, this time. Having finally untangled himself from Hagrid's wooden crates and their dubious contents, he stood with his feet slightly apart, pale, thin and gangly, a suspicious expression on his features as he glared down at the sword.

"Why d'you have to keep it?" he demanded. "Is it that you have good reasons, then it would be nice to share, because we've been working our pants off gathering up all this junk—" He had a broad gesture encompassing the dozens of swords spread over the floor. "—Or is it that the sword won't let you? Because I don't like this thing. If it starts having its own mind about who should own it, I say we get rid of it before it gets nasty."

"You can't get rid of it," Harry countered, and again, he spoke with a certainty he did not completely understand. "See, old Isiame weapons have been found for centuries by people who weren't Isiames themselves — Muggles, and sometimes wizards. These people were made guardians of the city as soon as they touched the weapon, and when they died, it went back to the Isiames. I've seen the old weapons in their city; they're useless now. Anyone can handle them. But this… this sword has power whereas its guardian is dead—"

"So when you touched it, you became a guardian yourself?" Ron had gone paler still. "And it could've happened to _any_ of us, if we'd found the damn thing?"

"We wouldn't have found it, Ron," said Luna. "The sword was waiting for Harry! It chose him!"

But Ron did not seem to hear. He stared at the sword with a kind of horrified fascination, his hands coiling into fists at his sides. "We should destroy it. Right now. It wants to enslave you, Harry! To turn you against — against us! Against Hogwarts! How can we destroy it, Professor?" He turned frantic eyes towards McGonagall, a pleading note in his voice.

"I'm not sure we can, Weasley," said McGonagall. She, too, was observing the sword closely. "Merging the two swords into one and writing on the blade took great magical skill. No doubt the authors did not go to so much trouble to see their work destroyed. They wanted it to be found."

A shadow fell upon the Headmistress's lined face. There was sadness and pity in the gaze she levelled on Harry, such as he had never seen from his old Professor; he dearly wished she would not look at him this way.

"Those poor children," she whispered.

Tonks detached herself from the wall she leant against. "Let's admit Harry's parents made this double sword," she said slowly. "Let's imagine they left it for Harry to find. They didn't make it easy for him, did they?"

There was a sound like a foghorn when Hagrid blew his nose. "That sounds just like 'em," he said in a raucous voice, sniffing now and then. "We found it only because Hogwarts is ready for a war, didn'we? Maybe we was allowed to use the sword only if there was war?"

"Yeah, but what should we use it for?"

At Tonks's question, everyone turned to Harry in expectant silence.

He had a small, forced smile, to reassure allies and friends.

"I'll think of something," he said. To illustrate his words, his mind already elsewhere, he snapped his fingers once.

The flames of the dozens of candles were instantly snuffed out. There was a rushing sound, and on the tip of Harry's index finger a ball of white light blossomed, as cold and pure as the lights that hovered in the corridors of Isiame City.

"How did you do that?" Tonks breathed, eyes wide open. "That — that _wasn't magic!_"

Harry stared at the ball of light. It illuminated effortlessly the least corners of Hagrid's hut while revolving on itself, a perfect, alien thing. It was the first time he had succeeded in making one.

"I've been able to do weird stuff lately," he said, staring into the light, his voice low and hoarse. "Ever since it all began. You knew that."

"I…" Tonks licked her lips. Harry hated to see the fright on her face. "I'd never seen it before."

"It's never been that easy," he confessed. The light pulsed on the tip of his finger. With a tiny effort of will he sent it upwards, to hover between the beams supporting the roof.

The sword buzzed quietly against his thigh.

Hagrid cleared his throat in a great barking noise, making everyone jump. "Well, thank yeh for the light, Harry," he said gruffly. "I'll clean up the mess and fix dinner now, alrigh'?"

"I'll handle the dinner part," Romilda said very fast. Harry thought he saw her shudder a bit at the thought of Hagrid's cooking. "I've brought enough to make a soup for eight. I even brought Butterbeer."

"And I'll, I'll get the sausages!" added Ron, catching on Romilda's pleading glances.

There was a chorus of approval and everyone started moving at once, picking up the swords and pushing them in heaps against the walls, moving the furniture back to its original position, and generally busying themselves and taking care not to look up at the ball of white light.

Harry and his sword had been relegated in a corner near Hagrid's bed. He sat on the bed, studying the sword with its markings he couldn't decipher, and with the gentle buzzing that he felt into his bones.

"Mr Potter," said a thread of a voice.

Harry started and wheeled about. He'd almost sat on Professor Parletoo's feet, whom he had completely forgotten. A year of coma, which had left Ron and Luna apparently unscathed, had ravaged the former Head Healer. The sheet outlined his skeletal legs, stretched out like that of a recumbent statue. His long hands rested on top of the quilt like broken toys that would have been tossed there and forgotten. If it was not for the rising and falling of his chest, a little too fast to be reassuring, and for the blue eyes shining in a thin, pale face, he might have been dead.

"I've been filled in with recent events," the Healer whispered. "Did I understand right…? You gained… new powers. Powers similar to those creatures'."

"I—" Harry cleared his throat. "I never said it was their power, Professor. I am a wizard."

"It is Professor McGonagall's guess. She recognised you, a few weeks ago, in the creature who killed Fenrir Greyback in Hogsmeade. You may be one of their own, which would surprise me, as my medical examinations never suggested such a thing; at the very least though, you aren't fully a wizard. You have powers we know not."

"This is the first time I've been able to produce that simple spell, Professor," said Harry through clenched teeth. "If I had such powers, why weren't they revealed before now?"

At this, the half-corpse's face was suddenly illuminated by a broad, triumphant smile. His thin voice lowered to something barely audible, and Harry had to lean forward to hear the next words:

"And this, my dear, is the greatest discovery of my whole career… I've been thinking about it ever since I was awoken, I might even have been thinking about it all along while I was unconscious. I might not live long enough to publish it, so listen closely: the key to it all, the secret, the reason you are… what you are, is that you were brain-damaged."

The revelation probably did not have on Harry the effect the old man expected; meeting his former patient's blank look, he elaborated, sounding a little vexed:

"For centuries, wizards have been bickering about the place where the magic resides in the body. Is it the heart? Head? Soul? The Horcrux experiment proved it probably was not the soul, but the debate is still open. For expediency's sake, let's say it's in the brain. I am probably wrong in calling it so, but — this is not the subject.

"You see, Mr Potter, every man is granted a share of skill, intelligence, imagination, compassion, and so on. They all possess those things in varying degrees, according to their brain capacity. Wizards have something more: a share of magic, which may be very different from an individual to the next. These creatures, these Third Kind people — they have something more still. I haven't found a name for it yet, but it's there, in their brain, sharing the room with other gifts from nature.

"No wizard could accommodate a share of that power — there wouldn't be enough room, see? Their own… brain… is already filled up to full capacity with their own natural gifts. Such power needs a lot of space, space a fully-fledged wizard cannot offer."

The manic grin was back now on the wax mask.

"But _you_ have been brain-damaged."

Harry found his voice at last. "At the Hogwarts battle," he said, following the line of Parletoo's reasoning. "The four Cruciatus curses."

"Precisely," whispered the old Healer. "The four curses did worse than damaging your nerves; they obliterated a part of your brain, the part that feels and understands pain and touch. Nature abhors a vacuum. There was a power in the Forest where you found shelter, an ancient power that was trapped into the trees and soil. It rushed into you, protected your brain against worse damages from the Cruciatus, and settled there."

Parletoo had another wild smile.

"You should have died," he said with visible, intense satisfaction. "The Curses should have eaten your brain until there was little left of you — no magic, no reason, no youth; the Longbottoms were living proof of that. But no. Out of luck, extraordinary luck, you were in a secret place where there was power just waiting to be used. Begging to find someone to use them."

Harry shook his head. "I was led into the core of the Forest, sir. I was attracted to the place, and I was accepted by the trees. The same trees that murdered the Death Eaters. It was all before the… power took hold of me. There was little luck involved."

"Took hold of you." Parletoo closed his eyes, his gaunt face shining with a thin layer of sweat. "You were… predisposed, no doubt. When your reason, your magic, your identity were threatened by the Curses, your subconscious guided you to the only place in the world where you could be saved. A place where you were accepted because you were your mother's son, your mother, who owned the Third Kind sword."

"My subconscious guided me."

"Or someone else's," said Parletoo in a single expelled breath. His electric blue eyes shot wide open again, and he looked down at the sword in Harry's hands. "Yes, of course. Your parents were remarkable wizards, I think. They might have planted into your young brain this… injunction, before they died. Then they designed the weapon that would help canalise this new power, should you ever need it. It is… a wild hypothesis… I need to look into it…"

"How can you know all this, Professor?" Harry asked, interrupting Parletoo's muttering. "How can you know that's what happened — the damage to my brain, the power filling in the spot? And why do you think the sword helps canalise the power?"

"When you picked up the sword, you've been able to control the power for the first time, you just told me so," said Parletoo. Both men glanced up to the white source of life pulsing between blackened beams. "That sword is part-wizard, part-Third Kind, obviously. The share of power you got in the Forest, in replacement for the share of humanity you lost, wasn't large enough to enable you to use it consciously. The sword might bring you just the quantity of power needed to control yours. That would be my guess."

"It's all guesses then," said Harry roughly.

Parletoo had a small, shrewd smile.

"In terms of magical Healing, Mr Potter, my guesses usually are pretty accurate."

"What are you two whispering about?" said Romilda's panting voice.

Harry's head whipped about and found the Three Broomsticks waitress standing before him, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows and an apron tied around her waist. Behind her, the room had been cleaned and the table was set for seven. He felt mildly guilty for sitting around while they all worked.

"Just catching up, Miss Vane," said Parletoo with a thin smile. "I'll rest a bit now, Mr Potter. Then tomorrow, we can discuss this again."

"Sure," Harry said hastily. Rising from the bed, he joined Romilda and the others around the table, taking with him the sword that he could not bring himself to leave.

Dinner was short and silent. Most people were too tired to speak, and Harry had the feeling they wanted to get out of the white light as fast as possible — although they were too intent on not hurting his feelings to ask him to put it out. Professor McGonagall answered Tonks's questions about the way Hogwarts was preparing to war; indeed, the enchantment she had used to bring forth the swords had set other spells in motion, and the castle was now ready for an assault. Pupils, teachers and visitors were locked in until the state of war was lifted.

"I calculated I might have a week before I am revoked as Headmistress, for 'accidentally' triggering the enchantments," she calmly added to her audience's stupefaction.

"What?" said Romilda and Hagrid at the same time.

"Parents have noticed their letters no longer reached their children," McGonagall elaborated. "They alerted the Ministry, who could only record that Hogwarts was getting ready for a magical assault. They are powerless in lifting the enchantment. The spells might be broken only if Hogwarts itself deems it is no longer at war; and if I, as the Headmistress, decide not to interfere with the process, it might take a long time before Hogwarts no longer feels threatened."

She played a little with what was left of her soup, which had gone cold in her plate.

"The Howlers are exploding just outside the boundaries of the school, but I hear them from my desk."

Tonks shot a furtive look at Harry, who met her eyes steadily.

"War is coming to Hogwarts," he said to the silent table. "In a few days. Less, maybe. It'll be attacked on two fronts, and it'll have to stand fast, because otherwise I don't know what will become of us."

"It will stand fast," said Hagrid gruffly. "It always has."

"To Hogwarts," said Romilda.

They all echoed the toast, but Harry could not help notice Minerva McGonagall's too bright eyes as she lifted the glass to her lips.

* * *

"Tell me about Hermione, mate," said Ron.

Harry stifled a sigh. He knew Ron had tried his hardest to avoid questioning him in front of the others; but now that nearly everyone had gone to bed, now that they both sat alone in the guest bedroom Ron occupied, the words were bursting from his best friend's lips — and he could not see how to answer without hurting him.

"What do you know?" he finally asked.

He sat on the windowsill, as he often did lately, his back to the night that stretched on; from there he faced Ron who fidgeted in the depths of the red, sagging armchair he had chosen for himself next to the fireplace.

"Well, our enemies right now are the Unspeakables, right?" Ron started cautiously. "They set the werewolves on Hogsmeade, they were responsible for the Aurors' death and your partner's disappearance, and possibly for Malfoy manor blowing up — can't say I blame them for that one, though, awesome you could escape before it went off, mind… And Hermione was an Unspeakable."

"She was working with them," Harry began, but Ron was already shaking his head.

"Come on, Harry, be serious here," he said hotly. "Hermione killing people? Are you out of your mind?"

"She was part of the team that let the werewolves go after Hogsmeade," Harry insisted. "Maybe she tried to make sure the villagers were protected — I don't know. There was at least one death. Either way, she thought she was preventing a greater danger when she sacrificed Hogsmeade."

Ron's mouth was set in a stubborn line.

"That doesn't sound like her," he said.

"That sounds exactly like her, on the contrary," replied Harry through clenched teeth. "That sounds like something Hermione would do after going crazy with grief and worry. Trying to solve everything by going deeper into the theory, and understanding the mechanisms. She must've lied to herself a lot to go to that depths, I'll give you that."

Harry licked his lips. Between his hands, the sword was buzzing gently again, its point resting on a faded red carpet — even in a guest bedroom, Ron gave in to his penchant for Gryffindor colours. The snow that drifted in front of the narrow window muffled the voice of the exterior world, and right now, he felt separated from the rest of the universe; just him, Ron, and the truth he struggled to explain.

His head felt heavy; one of his old migraines was building up at his temples. He wanted the conversation to be over.

"You know, she never forgave me for putting you in harm's way…"

Ron's face was drained off the little colour it had sustained after his long coma.

"You saying she did that… for me," he said, his voice hollow.

Harry nodded. "Partly, at least. She wanted to wake you up. She didn't trust me, because she didn't think I was myself anymore — and also because I was the reason you were attacked. So she lost herself in her studies, she justified the stuff she was doing even if she hated doing it, and I suppose she no longer knew what was right and wrong, after a while."

He rubbed at his forehead. "She was… very lonely, I suppose."

"Like you," said Ron. Harry glanced at him, surprised.

"Yeah, like me, I guess," he said.

"And you ended up jinxing each other," Ron went on. "You both sound equally fucked up."

"Yeah, well. It's been a rough year," said Harry, starting to feel a little annoyed at Ron's superior looks.

Ron's face went from livid to the colour of a peony. "Mine's been dandy, thanks for asking."

Harry snorted and shook his head in disbelief.

"I don't think I can explain just how…" He sighed noisily, tried again. "Listen. For months I've been in the middle of a goddamn cyclone; I wish I could've had you and Hermione with me, but _I didn't._ It was my fault I didn't — if I hadn't involved either of you, you'd never have been shot. I know that better than anyone, believe me."

"It's not—"

"And it's been like that since we were kids, isn't it?" Harry went on, his voice rising a little. "You two get involved in whatever mess I'm in, and you get hurt. If you've had enough, fine — I can't ask that much of you. You've done a lot already; you can wait in Hogwarts till it's over. Hermione will recover, it's only a matter of time, and then you'll have your bloody happily ever after."

The silence that followed was thick as tar. Ron's jaw was still set, but he had averted his eyes from Harry's and contemplated the floor instead. Harry rubbed at his temples again.

"How hard was it?" said Ron hoarsely. "Cursing her?"

Harry lowered his eyes to the two-faced sword that rested against his knee, and tested the edge on his thumb. It was blunt.

"About the hardest thing I've done since I first started investigating this case."

Silence hung between them again, for a few seconds; Harry's migraine was developing to atrocious proportions. He had not experienced such a bad one in months.

"It's been bad, Harry," said Ron in a low, defeated voice. "Waking up, learning how horrible it's all turned out, learning that you're hunted down by the whole Ministry — it's not, y'know, being thrown in with people wanted by half of Great Britain that is the worst. It's always been worth it, being on your side. It's more… you, running things on your own, and us there, who can do nothing more to help than look for a _sword._ It's maddening. Not knowing what's happening, not being able to contact my family because they might be targeted, not knowing where you are, what you're trying to do, and how to help you…"

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on ends. "In a way, I'm glad Hermione's in St Mungo's. She'll be safe there and I won't have to fight her," he quickly confessed.

"You've done a lot already," Harry repeated. "The sword is a key, Ron — and I'd never have found it on my own."

"What does it _mean?"_

Harry raised the sword and held it in the air, lying flat on his upturned palms.

"It means," he said, "that the last Isiame and Wizard Knights decided to upset a centuries-old status quo, by making this thing — and by letting me have it. My parents started this war, Ron. And I think they intended me to finish it."

They looked at each other for a long time over the sword. Then Ron had a one-shoulder shrug, a gesture that took Harry years back to the golden age of their friendship; and it was the old Ron, too, who concluded on a matter-of-fact voice, "One hell of a programme. Lucky there are eight of us, ready to save the world."

Harry suddenly smiled. "That's all it takes, right?"


End file.
